


My Lights Stay Up, But Your City Sleeps

by PearlyDewdrops



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Angst, Artist Harry, Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Insomnia, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, References to Anxiety and Depression, Rich Louis, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-10-11 15:37:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 108,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10468353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlyDewdrops/pseuds/PearlyDewdrops
Summary: Harry breaks into his own smile, scrunching his nose when he glances back up, meeting Louis' eyes, his stiff posture loosening. They stare for a beat, Harry's smile dwindling. "So... you're okay with it? That it can’t go anywhere?"Louis nods easily. "We're on the same page. Promise." He holds out his pinkie to prove it, mind hazy and giddy from alcohol. Harry’s dimples appear in each cheek as he holds out his own, their pinkies intertwining. "We're just two people who like each other, have fun together, and who may or may not kiss and... stuff.” He grins, wild adrenaline pumping through to his fingertips.Harry sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, lowering his flushed gaze to the floor.“Just don't go falling in love with me, and it'll be fine," Louis smirks.Or Louis has trouble sleeping, Harry has a habit of wrapping himself around Louis during the nights, and a mutual agreement to engage in a fun and simple thing quickly turns into something perhaps not so fun, and certainly not simple.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hiii :) 
> 
> Ahhh, I'm a bit nervous... eek. So this is the longest fic I've written and it's definitely going to exceed 70k at this point. It's something that I started towards the end of last year but so many incredibly tough and sad things have happened since then, it kind of got pushed aside for a bit.
> 
> This is mostly fluffy, pining silliness (because it keeps me sane lol) but there is a bit of angst in here somewhere, some mentions of anxiety, and a panic attack in Chapter Four, so just letting you know in case. 
> 
> I've written most of this already (it just needs editing) but I'm struggling a bit, so I thought I'd start splitting it into chapters and posting it and maybe I'll get more inspiration to finish if I know a few people want to read it, lol. Also, I know I don't have the best track record with chaptered fics (I'm sorry that I suck!) but I can safely say this will definitely be finished really soon, because it pretty much nearly is, so, yeah. (Also, I was watching Skam last year while writing the first half of this so I was heavily influenced by some scenes, hah.)
> 
> Okay, I hope it's alright :) xx
> 
> *insert usual disclaimer* 
> 
> (I've read this so many times now my eyes are blurry. I really hope there's no more mistakes. EDIT: I've made some minor changes so this is the final version, phew. 04/07)
> 
> Title is from 'Fever' by Carly Rae Jepsen.

 

_It's a good thing tears never show in the pouring rain._

_Appropriate lyrics,_  Louis thinks, furiously rubbing at his eyes.

You know, seeing as Louis happens to be perched on an uncomfortable, sopping wet bench that’s digging into his arse (it’s one of those modern ones that is barely even suitable for sitting on) and in, that’s right, the literal pouring rain.

His lips press tightly together, a heavy pressure weighing on his chest, determined not to break.

_As if a good thing ever could make up for all the pain._

Bursts of lightning illuminate the night sky sporadically in front of him, his ear buds doing absolutely nothing to help drown out the noise of the storm that’s swirling aggressively around him—or to dampen the one currently having a party inside his head.

It’s a shitty party. And a pretty accurate picture of what’s actually going on in there.

Louis Tomlinson has never believed that loving someone was something he should be scared of when it eventually happened to him.

And he certainly wasn’t under the impression it could physically  _hurt_ this much, or that he’d be able to feel the ache of it down to his bones. And yes, he’s well aware how dramatic he sounds, thank you, but he’s heartbroken. He’s never been through this before, alright? God, he never thought this would even happen, so he thinks he can be forgiven if he wants to be as dramatic as possible for a bit.

But apparently, it’s looking as though Louis was wrong about a lot of things.

  1. That he shouldn’t be scared of it.
  2. That it happened to him this early.
  3. That it doesn’t hurt as much as people make out. (Oh, love hurts, alright. Like a motherfucker, does it hurt. He wants a refund asap.)



He’s honestly never felt this miserable, and that’s saying something, considering how exhausted and disenchanted he was with the world.

Before he went and fell in love.

So, then. Looks like Louis is effectively ruined for anyone else at the ripe old age of twenty-one.

Because Louis only wants  _one_  person. One  _boy_  in the whole entire universe. One that he promised this wouldn’t happen to.

Ugh, Louis’ never getting involved with someone and calling it ‘having fun’ ever again.

Someone will have to stop him getting attached before it’s too late (maybe he should hire Liam to be that person).

His hood is getting heavier by the second, absorbing the rain like a sponge. He’s utterly soaked through, fingers numb and trembling around his phone, gripping onto it with white knuckles and feebly attempting to keep the thing dry with the hem of his (sopping wet) hoodie.

He’s staring down at the black screen, a slight crack in the corner from when he dropped it that third time they... No. Stop it, brain. He wills it to light up instead, his body doing full shakes as the rain continues to pour down. His lips have probably turned blue at this point.

Yep, he’s truly drenched now, and all while Louis’ battered heart has since been beaten some more, melted into hot lava and then disintegrated into crisp ashes the more he thinks about it.

Everything was fine. Okay, it might have been a little complicated, but still. They were brushing lips against lips, fervent hands touching everywhere, giving and stealing each other’s breath away like they had all the time in the world.

And then it was over before Louis’s brain even realised what was happening.

So things are going splendidly, if it wasn’t obvious.

_And now you're gone, there's like an echo in my head._

Okay, that’s quite enough of that, Robyn.

Like he needs to feel sorry for himself any more than he is already. Niall and Liam will be calling out a search party if he stays out any later. There’s a power cut on campus—his friends’ frantic messages have informed him. He thinks his bum might actually be stuck to this bench, though. If it’s even still there. He can’t feel a thing, limbs frozen like ice blocks.

He blinks open his wet eyes and sniffs.

There’s a buzz.

His phone lights up and Louis’ breath catches when a message pops up.

Louis swallows the lump lodged in his throat as he hastily slides his thumb over to open it, wiping his drenched sleeve over the screen with a smudge.

_Taking the train home tonight. We'll talk soon? x_

Louis scoffs, staring blankly at his phone for several seconds, a surge of anger rising to his pores, then hopelessness and then a wave of distress comes over him, his jaw to beginning to shake.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters, face crumpling, immediately calling Liam to come pick his sorry arse up, knowing the raindrops streaming down his freezing cheeks are no longer raindrops.

He resumes his music and waits.

_And you never were, and you never will be mine._

Louis collapses sideways on the bench and curls into a ball, chewing on his lip viciously.

Yeah.  _He’s never doing this again_ , he thinks, as blinding car headlights pull up onto the kerb with a squelch. 

 

  

****

 

Louis flops onto the lounger in the back garden with an exaggerated sigh, absently pulling on the hem of his t-shirt as The Smiths morbidly croon inside his headphones, his eyelids drooping shut beneath his aviators. He swipes a hand across his damp forehead, fingers adjusting his likely flat fringe.

He opens one eye as he aims the screen of his phone at his head.

Yep, as he expected—it’s indeed a sweaty mess.

If autumn would end its procrastination and just bloody arrive now, he’d really appreciate it. This fluke warm spell is just unnatural for almost October. (To be fair, he only has to wait another week or so for it to kick in but. Louis is impatient.)

Because hot weather isn’t really his favourite. It beats being cold, definitely, but it fucks up his hair and his skin gets all blotchy. He much prefers the auburn colours, and the oversized layers of clothing he can wear, the limited-time-only, seasonal coffee concoctions and when the air is crisp and misty and the damp chill tickles at your cheeks. And he’d really like to get his fleece jean jacket back on. (Tomlinson Trademark, that is. Says, he.)

Yes. He wants a comfy, knitted jumper to pull over his t-shirt, as he sips on his favourite hazelnut latte, please and thanks. And warming up with a nice pair of lips gently sucking on his wouldn’t go a miss either. Except, a nice owner of a luscious pair of lips is hard to come by, Louis’ found. Every pair that's recently touched his only ever feeling like... Well. Not much, as it goes.

He doesn’t exactly feel much of anything these days, really, (apart from the awareness of a mind-numbing lack of motivation and extreme irritableness) despite his brain being continuously switched on throughout the livelong day (and night).

Sleep is like gold dust to Louis, and it just isn’t happening an awful lot right now.

But then again, his dislike for hot weather could also have something to do with the horrendous, drama-filled, stress-inducing holidays abroad he used to have with his family, but he’d rather not re-hash that can of worms right now. (Psychology is for uni. He’s on his break, thank you. And no, his party trick is _not_  trying to read your damn body language back to you. To be honest, he’s more into artistic vocations but that’s a whole other thing.)

So, anyway, did he say  _back garden_?

In actual fact, the ‘garden’ is a good few acres of spotlessly kept green land, paired with an outdoor heated pool near the conservatory. A cool, clear blue, glistening in the sun’s rays, and considering England barely gets traditional summers anymore, Louis might as well make the most of what little sunny days they have left for this year. He'll probably (definitely) start complaining about the cold once autumn arrives, anyway, and all the waxing poetic he was giving it just now will quickly be forgotten.

Like, it’s really warm out now, he’s directly in the sun and Louis’ arms are  _still_  gathering goosebumps. He always did get cold easily. Which is also why Louis is very much keen on someone to distract him with their body heat. (Slim chance, though. Next to zero guys seem to be catching his eye lately.)

It belongs to his father. Did he mention? So, naturally, it stands for everything Louis despises.

His emotionally-stunted, disgustingly rich father (who may or may not actually be a cyborg. Louis’ still looking into it) who owns a company that specializes in art dealership or something along those lines—Louis doesn’t really know, nor does he care to ask more questions about his life either, considering his lousy, mostly non-existent father hardly grunts in his direction half the time (not that Louis’ exactly crying himself to sleep over that fact—if he could fucking sleep at all, that is).

Louis wants for nothing, but it’s not like he prefers to spend the money all that much. Money that his father throws at him to keep him behaved, civil, silent. He accepts that he pays for his tuition and he’s grateful, of course he is. But it still feels like he’s being handed things, and it swirls guilt around his stomach most of the time.

But his saint of a mother has a reasonably paid job at the hospital so she’s always kept him grounded, even while his father carelessly threw money around, and she’s taught him the value of hard work and he loves her to the moon and back and beyond—so it’s not like he’d end up an entitled prick, seeing as he’s inherited all of his good traits from her. (Well, he has his moments, obviously. He’s human, isn’t he? Sue him. Yeah, do. And bleed his selfish father dry while you’re at it.) And he also happens to have the best stepdad who always has his back, so it's not like Louis is without good role models. Honestly, they're just the best people and he's so lucky to have them.

Besides, it’s not even like he sees his fatherparticularly often.

Even on the rare occasions Louis sparsely showed up for their agreed, custodial (because yeah, it may as well have been a sentence than a shared custody agreement) weekend visits as a young teenager, they often lasted no more than an hour at most—once Louis was tired of listening to whomever his latest step-mother was that week, rambling on  _at_  him, usually either spectacularly drunk, or incredibly obnoxious, and there's been a couple that were just generally desperate enough for the lavish lifestyle.

It’s a sad sight sometimes, and Louis on occasion hasn’t been able to bite his tongue over his father’s blasé treatment of the women he chooses to date.

Louis would sit there scrolling through his phone in his rainbow socks, (and also because his father always clenched his jaw whenever he saw them) rigid and uncomfortable, counting down the seconds to when he could just up and leave and go home. Bored, disheartened (although used to the mess), and angrily chugging down glass after glass of champagne (that no one stopped him drinking), stuffing his face with expensive chocolate truffles that were always set in the middle of the immaculately polished, glass coffee table. And the house forever decorated with antique vases of fresh flowers, peppered around the ridiculously large living room. While Louis felt like throwing up at the over-indulgence of it all. And Louis loves flowers, but in that room it just felt like they were poisoned ivy, slowly strangling the life out of him.

Although, Louis did actually quite like Susan. She was lovely—too decent and far too intelligent for his father. She only lasted a few months in the end, having seen the light in record time and got herself the hell out of there. But she always listened to Louis, seeming genuinely interested in what he had to say, and carried fancy sweets around with her for some reason, too, sharing them with Louis with a wink and an affable smirk. He was actually sad to see her go, and truly wishes her luck in her future endeavours and all that. (At least she’s rid of him.)

Though, the man is not here today for some reason or other, (surprise, surprise) hence why Louis is happy to leisurely sprawl out and take advantage of the perks of having an absent rich parent. It’s calming being out here alone, and when you’ve got a mind as noisy and susceptible to sudden bad moods as Louis, it’s a godsend.

No, Louis doesn’t care to know about the details of that man’s whereabouts. Why should he? When Tomlinson Senior doesn’t give a single shit about where Louis is or what he does (or doesn’t do) with the further education he’s presently paying for. As long as Louis’ not showing him up in public, the man couldn’t care less about his only son.

So Louis might as well make the most of the couple hours he has to spare here. Soak up a bit of sunshine, work on his tan and maybe treat himself to a quick dip in the pool. He’s got fuck else to do.

Or that he  _wants_ to do.

Niall’s in Ireland seeing his family before term starts. Liam’s on a family holiday in the south of France. And Perrie won’t answer his calls. Too busy living it up on holiday in Ibiza—as her Instagram account has so helpfully informed him. His own account is basically a bunch of random shit relating to classic rock and alternative bands, along with some adorable pictures of his siblings, a collection of sunsets and shady, petty lyric posts. (And maybe the odd romanticised quote.)

But yeah, this bitterness he’s been harbouring for most of his life isn’t beginning to take its toll in the slightest. Nope. Not in any way. (*Insert eyes emoji*)

Especially not on his sleeping pattern either. Or lack of one, rather.

Because, unfortunately, sleep is a huge problem for him these days. It’s not been fun. And Louis’ just about at the end of his tether with exhausting all the remedies, pills and herbal vitamins and all that stuff to fix it. (Getting drunk enough to pass out easily isn’t exactly healthy or kind on the vital organs, obviously. Or most sensible. He doesn’t do that, though it’s tempting.)

But, yeah. Back to The Smiths and their oh-so-cheerful composition that is obviously nothing like Louis’ current state of mind. Nope!

Louis takes off his t-shirt and lies comfortably down in his ripped jean shorts, arms cushioning his head and obviously not expecting any company for a while. There’s no one in the house as far as he’s aware, anyway. His father’s housekeeper, Rosie, left a while ago after her shift ended and so Louis has got the lavish, excessively pristine house all to his lonesome.

Lovely Rosie, who sometimes does Louis’ laundry, too and he repays her by buying her bunches of pink carnations, (her favourites) and sometimes he slips her extra pay on the sly, which earns him a beaming kiss on the cheek every time and Louis skips off with red cheeks and a warm fuzziness in his bones. (That will never hear the light of day. She’s just the sweetest, okay?)

Nope, there’s no one around until he’s startled by the abrupt sound of a door slamming, that is.

Louis squints to get a glimpse of the visitor, praying to a most merciful god that it’s not who he thinks it is.

After a minute or two, Charlotte, his younger sister appears, strolling outside with rainbow strands in her peroxide blonde hair, the tresses shimmering in the sunlight. (Oh, thank god.)

“Louis? What are you doing out here?” Charlotte frowns, tone particularly aloof for her usual chirpy self.

“Contemplating the meaning of life. What does it look like I’m doing?” Louis drawls lazily, closing his eyes again. 

Charlotte walks up to him and ruffles his hair, picking at the sweaty strands. 

"Alright, love?" he hums, pausing his music.

“Mmhmm. You?" She continues to play with his hair, smoothing it down and threading through it with her fingers. She's very talented with hair. If Louis needs a trim he just goes to her. Hairdressers always fuck his hair up with their own stubborn need to do what they want with it so it’s the safest bet. Louis is very particular with his hair.

"No. Terrible."

He can practically feel the concerned frown burning into the back of his head. "Right, okay. Well, we're talking about that later, but I'm gonna need to you scarper now, thanks. I’ve got company.” Louis swats her away when she pinches his ear and arches an intrigued eyebrow.

“Who?”

“None of your business,” she chirps.

Louis rolls his eyes, perching his aviators atop his head. He turns to look at his younger sister, fifteen going on thirty. “Bloody hell, you’re dressed smart.” He pauses. “What are you up to?” Louis asks suspiciously.

“Just get a move on, will you?”

She tries tipping the sun lounger over with Louis still on it.

“God, how rude!” Louis screeches.

“Lou,” Charlotte says, impatient. “You usually can’t wait to get out of this place whenever you’re here. Which is rare for you, anyway, so why are you suddenly so eager to stay now?”

"Because you clearly don’t want me to,” Louis coos, trying to catch her face in his hands. He smirks as she squirms away, a smile curving her pouty lips. “And, please. Like  _he_  would notice if I was here or not."

Charlotte stares, displeased with his response by the looks of it. She’s still rather attached to the older Tomlinson, and very young when their parents divorced so all the screaming and his cheating and neglect went right over her head, especially when he showered her with expensive presents all the time.

It’s when Louis is about to start searching the house for hidden teenage boys, that a wild curly brown head pops out of the patio glass doors, furrowed brows inspecting the garden curiously, startling when he sees Louis and Charlotte’s eyes already on him. 

The boy smiles a little, hesitantly stepping out onto the immaculate taupe patio in a Pink Floyd t-shirt and a dark baggy denim shirt, ripped black skinnies practically painted onto his slim long legs, suede boots on his huge feet. And he’s a little on the gangly side, but he’s quite hot, Louis thinks, looking at him sideways.

Boyishly hot, actually. Soft and rumpled. A bit cherubic, like, even when clearly trying to dress like a mini-rockstar, a cool pair of sunglasses resting amongst his hair like a headband. And he’s got these huge plush lips that are incredibly  _pink._  Louis finds his gaze suddenly awfully preoccupied with them—

What was he saying earlier about nice lips?

“Sorry,” the boy says ruefully, snapping Louis out of his smooching reverie, speaking to Charlotte. “I didn’t mean to pry—it’s just you were gone a while so I was wondering where you’d—” His eyes drift over to Louis, flitting over his bare chest and lingering there for a moment before hastily looking up again. “Uh, sorry.”

The boy turns his attention back to Charlotte, seemingly waiting. His creamy cheeks might be a tad rosier than before.

Louis smiles a bit smugly to himself, pleased.

“And you are?” He speedily slides his t-shirt back on, attempting to sound his most intimidating, satisfied with the flustered effect he seems to be having on this wholesomely attractive boy, it has to be said.

Pretty Boy stares, lips agape.

“Oh, um—I’m Harry.” He shakes his head. “Styles. Your sister?—” he looks for confirmation. Louis nods, “—said your dad might be interested in a few amateur artist’s work? For a new portrait exhibition at his gallery coming up in the New Year sometime? I was hoping to have mine considered for it.”

Louis frowns. It’s the first he’s heard of it. Then again, since when does his father tell him anything? And vice versa, obviously. “Oh, okay? That’s... interesting?”

“Yes, so leave us alone, please,” Charlotte interrupts. “We have things to plan, dates to discuss.”

Louis scoffs. Yeah, sure. “Dad isn’t even here. And you’re not his assistant, Lottie.”

Charlotte’s cheeks flush a similar shade to Harry’s. And Louis’ feeling like a little shit this afternoon. So he crosses his arms, trying to hold back a snort. “How old are you, may I ask, Henry?”

“It’s Harry. And I’m—eighteen,” he answers after a moment, brows knitting. “Why?”

“Well, Charlotte’s far too young for games like this. She’s only fifteen, I hope you know that. So on your way you go. Chop, chop,” Louis glares, brushing his hands together and doing a poor job of hiding the smirk that’s tugging the corners of his lips.

A horrified expression appears on Harry’s face. “No, oh my—that's—shit, no, no, no!” he insists, shaking his head frantically, eyes widening comically. “Jesus. I’m not—I’m literally just here to see Mr Tomlinson,” he rushes, while Charlotte gets even pinker. He feels almost sorry for her. But he’s always been a wind-up merchant. A little teasing never hurts. “I’d never—”

The poor boy has gone beetroot red.

Louis has to stifle a laugh. “Right. Well. Good. Okay, then. But Mr Tomlinson isn’t here right now, I’m afraid. I’d be happy to pass on a message. Though, I make no promises he’ll receive it.” He turns to Charlotte, who’s standing awkwardly and twirling her hair round her finger. “Lots, I'll drop you back home on my way to campus. Come on.”

“But!”

“The car. Now,” Louis says, using his most authoritative older brother voice.

Charlotte folds her arms, petulant and mortified. She’s silently sulking for a total of five seconds before she hesitantly asks, “Can you give me a ride to a party tonight?” She fidgets on the spot as she plays with the silver necklace hanging from her neck, biting on her red painted lip.

Louis narrows his eyes. “A house party? Whose party is it?”

“A mate's. From my class.”

“Oh, okay, sure,” Louis smiles widely.

“Really?” Charlotte lights up.

“No!” Louis laughs, patting his knee. “God, you’re barely legal!” He puts a hand on her back to gently lead her back into the house.

“Oh, please!” she shrieks. “Like you were a bloody monk when you were my age!”

Louis screws his face up, holding up a finger. “Firstly. Weird analogy.” He picks up his headphones. “And secondly, we’re not talking about me, are we? You were clearly going to trade a meeting with Dad to get Harry to take you to this party, weren't you? Probably wanted him to buy you some cheap vodka, too, and who knows what else.”

Charlotte releases a shrill groan and stomps off into the house, heels clicking on the marble floor obnoxiously, leaving Harry staring at Louis, brows furrowed in concentration. He’d forgotten he was there for second.

“Can I help you?” Louis tries not to stare too hard at his full lips. “I thought I explained?”

Harry suddenly snaps out of wherever he'd zoned off to, flitting his eyes back up to Louis’. “Um, yeah. A message? Just... if you do see your dad—”

“I probably won’t,” Louis says curtly.

“But if you do. Could you maybe tell him I dropped by?” Harry asks, hopeful and earnest. "Please. I'd really appreciate it."

Louis sighs. Harry looks genuinely like a sad puppy with those big green eyes, unblinking and waiting owlishly. Who is Louis to upset this soft creature? This artfully unkempt, pretty hipster puppy with patches on his bag.

“Fine. I’ll try my best.”

“Oh, brilliant! Great," Harry grins. God, he even has dimples, too. They’re quite wonderful. Cute, even. Oh no. "Thank you. I really do appreciate this. Um...” Harry gestures to the door. “I’m...yeah, I’m gonna go now. Thanks again.”

“Yeah, fine. See you around, mate,” Louis replies vaguely, already scanning the patio for his shoes.

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry says quietly, the tiniest hint of a smile visible on his soft, porcelain cheeks, and then he turns around to leave, hiking his bag up.

Louis stares as Harry disappears through the doors, throwing one more glance over his shoulder, a more prominent smile quirking in the corners of his massive mouth. Louis stares a few beats longer, slipping his shoes back on and follows him inside.

**

There’s no more wine left.

Louis frowns deeply, whining to himself, squinting with one eye closed as he attempts to see into the glass bottle that has betrayed him so, tapping the end as though one last drop of red is going to miraculously appear and dissipate on Louis’ needy tongue, the indie music and chaos downstairs thumping on as the party continues.

He's hiding from Niall, because that boy is definitely trying to have him killed by his concoctions. He might have insulted St. Patrick’s Day or something, so he’s afraid for his life. He'll stick to wine now, thanks.

But it’s completely empty. Which is putting a damper on things. Come to think of it, his bum is a bit damp, too.

Louis sits up in an extravagant, peach bathtub that is certainly not his, fully clothed, his hair slightly wet from the leaking showerhead. And regrettably, feeling terribly drunk.

Oh well. You only live once and all that pretentious rubbish. He’ll sleep when he’s dead and blah, blah—ouch, his chest hurts. Heartburn? He groans as he simultaneously hiccups (or burps), languidly rubbing at his droopy eyelids with no idea what the time is or where his phone is located (damn, maybe he can Jedi mind trick Liam to come and get him) when the bathroom door flings open and a tall boy enters, or rather stumbles inside, dressed like one of those artsy, hipster types, a brown mop of mussed waves and curls atop his notably very pretty head, boots dipped in glitter.

Ooh, glitter.

Pretty Curly Head walks over to the toilet, adjacent to the bath which Louis is sprawled in, drunk and high and very fucking exhausted.

He lifts up the seat and proceeds to do his business, absently glancing in Louis’ direction for a split second before he does a startled double take and yells.

“Fucking—” He stumbles backwards into a cabinet and groans in pain.

“Nope, unfortunately.”

The boy frowns, rubbing his arm as he grimaces. His eyes then settle upon Louis.

“Oh. Hi,” he blinks rapidly, cheeks a lovely shade of fuchsia, glassy-eyed and lips distressingly crimson. “Louis, right?” He smiles, eyelids droopy.

Ah! It’s the pretty boy Lottie brought over the other day. The artist. The one that couldn’t stop staring at Louis’ naked chest. Well. This night just got a lot better.

“Oh, Henry!” Louis shouts excitedly, sitting up abruptly. Oops. No. He shouldn’t do that again. He feels dizzy, a lot sick, and horribly bloated—what with the extensive amount of alcohol sloshing around his admittedly petite body. There may be more of it than blood in his veins at the moment.

“It’s Harry,” he corrects calmly, making his way to the gigantic sink to wash his hands, feet mildly unsteady as he keeps shooting curious glances Louis’ way every beat or so. The music is so loud, it’s like it’s playing inside the bathroom. “Why are you in the bath?”

“Because, dear boy, it’s comfortable. Why else?” Louis scoffs, vision blurry, hand clutching the edge of the bathtub.

Harry snorts, eyes glittering with amusement. “Yeah, looks it.”

Louis dips his chin, his body's limbs mangled up inside the tub at awkward angles.

Yeah, the man has a point.

He tries to move suddenly, making a loud squeaking noise with his shoes as Harry turns around from the towel rail where he’s drying his hands.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, brows pulled in what appears to be genuine concern. “You’re going to break your neck.”

"I'm not," Louis frowns, affronted. "I'm invincible!" he announces on another hiccup, flinging his arms into the air and then suddenly there's a pair of warm, big hands on either side of his hips, holding him steady and upright. Louis' head tilts downwards heavily like a rag doll’s, heart racing when glossy, wide green eyes meet his.

“Do you need me to help you downstairs?" Harry asks, slurring a little, probably quite drunk himself. Louis’ vision droops back down to the boy’s pigeon toed boots, creamy skin visible through the rips of his dark jeans at the knees.

Louis looks up again and stares, entranced by the exact shade of green of his eyes, a blend of jade and a stormy grey sea. Or maybe it’s a bit more like bottle green glass. Emeralds, perhaps. Louis exhales a breath as he continues to look at him, the other boy looking steadily back.

Everything feels a bit tense, a bit dreamlike, as though they’re stuck in slow motion. But then again, Louis  _is_  extremely intoxicated. So, could be that. Yeah, it’s probably that.

And then he's slumping into Harry's warm shoulder, nosing at his neck, catching a whiff of boyish sweat and saccharine perfume as his eyes fall closed. He feels strong arms lift him under his legs and settle onto the small of his back, and then he's weightless, and everything slips into a soft, quiet haze.

The quiet murmur of a deep voice rumbling in his ears is the last thing he hears before he slips into unconsciousness.

**

Thank the lord for brisk, damp weather.

Autumn officially springs itself upon the weary and hungover souls of campus on a Monday, (Louis would be much happier about it if he weren't so fucking exhausted) as he drags his feet along the worn, rain-wet concrete and wearily climbs up the steps, feeling the brittle snap of the wind lick at his pale but reddened cheeks.

His lips are chapped and sore, and his bleary, red-rimmed eyes are struggling to stay open as he rubs at one with the heel of his palm, wincing at the sound of high pitched laughter from a group of girls to his right, all seeming far too bright and perky for this time of morning.

It should be illegal to laugh that loud before midday.

Outrageous.

He continues on, still dragging his heels and barely managing to get his legs to work, (fuck, do these steps ever end?) half-wondering whether he was a sloth in a past life, (are they always tired or do they always sleep? Meh, whatever) when he’s hit with the realisation that he most definitely needs to throw up the contents of last night. Vomiting is a most traumatic experience, though, and Louis would rather hold out on that charming event for as long as possible. So cue feeling progressively worse and sicker as the day goes on. But it’s a deal Louis’ willing to make.

But, anyway. Caffeine. Louis needs caffeine, and lots of it. The highest dosage of espresso coffee to pump some life back into his clogged up, alcohol poisoned veins.

He’s never drinking again. Well, for at least a few days. (That’s practically a detox. He’ll be eating kale or broccoli for lunch next.) Alas, at this wretched point in time, Louis feels like there’s a pitiful dying creature pressing hard against his chest and stomach, scratching its claws at his delicate throat that tastes dire as fuck. He can barely squeeze his own fist, (correction: he cannot) he’s that  _tired._

Because last night was a _monster_  of an all nighter that he deeply regrets—meaning he stayed out at some house party until four in the morning, downing all sorts of intoxicating potions that Niall was making, and who the fuck knows what the kid was putting in them. Niall didn’t even bat an eyelid (the Irish are hardcore indeed—Louis’ not sure if he should be impressed or terrified).

And he probably did a bit too much weed for one night and he probably shouldn’t have gone for a round of shots of Sambuca because it’s the fucking  _devil_. Appropriate, seeing as Louis feels like death. What time exactly should he expect to greet the Underworld? (It’s a pity he doesn’t have an Orpheus willing to come and fetch him back. Ugh, Louis really needs some action. It’s been too long. He’s starting to think he’s forgotten how to do it.)

A really hot distraction would be really nice about now. Well, not right this second. But, you know. In general. Fuck, he’s so tired. Bed. Where is his bed? He needs it now.

But now it’s October and mostly everyone’s begun their new terms and are already drowning underneath the heaps of recommended (plus further) reading lists put up on Blackboard.

Louis, however, has been out more times than he’s picked up a book this month so far while he’s been staying on campus. (It wasn’t his choice. He can’t say no to people twice. He has an uncontrollable need to please his friends.)

He’s starting to regret that just a bit, as he makes his way to the library to check out some books he should have at least started to read by now, self-consciously adjusting the mess of hair atop his head, which is sticking out every which way. (He forgot his bloody beanie, didn’t he? Bullocks.)

Louis whimpers pitifully, bones aching and throat dry, wishing he had someone’s shoulder to lean on as they kindly support his weight, or give him a piggyback ride. Yeah, that’d be nice. But, oh wait! Louis has no one. He feels like he’s channelling Chandler Bing right now.

Scowling, he holds the door open for himself when his phone starts buzzing in his back jean pocket.

It takes every effort in him to retrieve the bloody thing.

“Hello. Louis Tomlinson. Danger speaking,” he drones groggily, already flinching because he _knows_  Niall is going to scream down the phone.

“You’re such a fucking weirdo,” Niall groans, much to Louis’ surprise. Shit, perhaps his token Irish friend is just as perilously hungover as he is for once. He must have entered a parallel universe at some point. Louis seems to be in The Upside Down. Frightening stuff. “Meet me at mine, will you? I’ve got a tiny situation I need you to help me with,” he informs him, voice hoarse and tinny on the other end, and very un-Niall like. “And it’s a cute situation so I’m sure you won’t kick up too much of a fuss when you see—”

“Bloody hell, Niall. Have you aged like five decades since last night? What’s wrong with you? You sound like an old man on the cusp of saying farewell to this hideous world—ow!”

He glares at a passerby who gives him a mighty thwack with the door he’s—granted, not so helpfully—standing in front of. Louis hates people sometimes. He hates being cold more, though. His bottom lip is actually quivering.

“Do you want me to scream? Because don’t think I won’t,” Niall manages to feebly croak out.

“Please. You sound like you’re inches away from collapsing. How’re you gonna do that?”

“Just get round to mine, please?”

“Are you joking? I’m gonna be fucking late if I do that! Why would I turn around to yours now?”

“Look, if you run really fast you’ll still make it for nine. You know Corden is always late for his lectures, anyway. And you love me, don’t you?”

Louis sighs. Bastard. “This better be good, Niall, or I swear I will tell every girl who so much as looks at you that you’re into feet.”

“You wouldn’t.” Niall burps then. Rather loudly. Louis thanks his lucky stars phones don’t have the ability to waft smells through the receiver yet. “Oh, shit. I’m gonna be sick again.”

“Again? Lord in Heaven, just what the fuck did you drink last night? This is unheard of for you, Nialler. Colour me shocked.”

Niall garbles something nonsensical and then hangs up, presumably to empty his stomach, to which Louis’ own gives a feeble grumble in sympathy.

Because Niall sounded pitiful, and Louis’ a softie really—that rough-around-the-edges front mostly up to protect himself from getting too attached to things and people for his own good, (he’s an extremely sensitive soul; he doesn’t know why everyone is always so surprised) so it seems Louis’ heart has overruled his screaming body’s objections, Vans scraping against the ground and already moving to the aid of his puking friend and whatever “cute” surprise is there to greet him.

Which isn’t a comforting thought at all.

Louis groans, aches and pains prickling his cells all over. Shit, now  _he_  sounds like the old man, as he begrudgingly swivels his body in the opposite direction, trudging back down the steps, apparently on his way to Niall’s and not to the library or even to his first morning lecture at this rate.

Niall moved into a small student flat this term, one that he shares with mutual friends nearby to campus—one being Liam, whom Louis has basically adopted as his younger brother, (the kid was seriously lacking a sense of humour when he met him and Louis managed to change that after a few months of clinging to his lap and forcing affection on him until he smiled. It actually worked, too) while Louis opted for staying in halls for his second year. He’d thought about moving in with Niall but in the end he decided he was comfortable where he was.

Really though, he just couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of moving out his stuff again and all the paperwork, even though he could afford it.

But Louis is a creature of habit.

When he finally got to Niall and Liam’s flat, he was stumped as to why Niall had ordered him round, contemplating throwing a chair his way for making him traipse all the way over here when Niall was leisurely hanging out on his worktop, apparently fine and stuffing a sandwich in his mouth, the air smoky and reeking of bacon.

Louis is currently frowning deeply, head pounding with his hands buried in his pockets when a deep, throaty stirring under a pile of blankets on the sofa makes him jolt in surprise.

He holds a hand dramatically over his weak heart. “Jesus. Nearly jumped out of my skin there. Who’s this, then?” he points with his thumb.

There’s a brown head of curls peaking out at the top of the purple duvet cover.

“The cute situation I mentioned. I need you to take him home,” Niall tells him, licking the ketchup off his fingers. Louis grimaces. “He’s fucking dead weight, and I’m too tired to try and shift him again. He already smacked me in the face. Fucking hard, too. I think my eye socket’s bruised.”

Louis stutters out an abrupt laugh and rubs a hand over his face before narrowing his eyes at him. “That’s seriously what you called me here for? This is it?” he shakes his head, pulling a face as Niall resumes eating his bacon sandwich. “And you thought I could shift him? I’m even smaller than you are! And I may have to see a doctor. My whole body is on fire, you dick. I practically had to crawl my way over here. I think you poisoned me last night. Though, granted my bum is bigger than yours and I have fantastic legs so I’m not quite that small—”

“Lou,” Niall whines. “Please. I don’t want to leave him here and then come back and find he’s thrown up all over my floor, okay? Liam will have a fit. Look, he lives in my old dorm room, okay? He’s only two doors down from you. He’s a first-year, a great kid. We used to go to school together—”

“I didn’t ask for his life story, thank you,” Louis cuts him off, just when the boy shifts, black painted fingertips poking out and loosely clutching the blanket before stilling again.

“Well, he is a good kid—”

Louis snorts. “Kid? Isn’t he practically the same age as you?”

“—and he’s so much fun, honestly.” The boy abruptly snores once. “When he’s conscious, obviously.”

Louis sighs, puffing out his cheeks as he fiddles with his fringe. “What’s his name, then?”

“Harry.”

As if on cue, the duvet slips down, revealing a large-mouthed, crimson-lipped boy turning onto his side, sleek brown curls falling over his eyelids, face slack and content.

Oh.

“Harry Styles?” Louis tilts his head in surprise. 

“Yeah," Niall nods, an eyebrow quirking. "You know him?”

“No, not exactly. He came by the house last week. Charlotte brought him round,” he rolls his eyes. "She told Harry he might be able to put his work on display at the elderly Tomlinson's gallery. I think she was planning on getting him to buy her booze in exchange for a meeting.”

Niall cackles out a short laugh. “Elderly? Your dad’s a catch. He’s not even grey yet!”

“That’s all you took from that?” Louis glares at Niall with distaste. “Never speak again. Wait, did you say he's living in  _your_ old dorm room?”

Niall nods slowly, clutching his head and covering his eyes with his palm. His vigorous method of laughing clearly didn't help his hangover. Poor soul.

So, Harry is living in the same place as Louis. He's not sure if he’s irritated or delighted by this new information. Especially if Harry is just going to hound him about setting up a meeting with his father. But Louis can't lie. He is also a bit pleased. After all, Harry is extremely pretty, so. And according to Niall, he’s fun. Maybe getting to know Harry wouldn’t be so terrible. He needs a bit of a distraction, anyway.

The wheels start to turn in his head as Louis stares at the boy’s peacefully sleeping form with curious eyes.

“Huh. So, Harry. He’s really into art and stuff, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah, big time," Niall nods. "Obsessed with it. He’s studying Fine Art as a major and then I think he’s hoping to get into a posh Art School after he’s graduated. He’s big on reading as well. He’s taking English Lit as his minor. He’s probably gonna be an author at this rate too.”

He hums. “Impressive.” Louis’ eyes slide back to Harry, settling upon his back that’s softly rising and falling with every breath, noticing a pair of suede boots at the foot of the sofa, lying askew under the coffee table.

“Yep, always reading in his ripped jeans like a fucking hipster cliché, this one,” Niall grins. “A right artsy kid. Always got fucking paint or charcoal or who knows what else smudged on his hands. Doesn’t get a drop on his clothes, though,” Niall comments, taking the last bite of his sandwich.

He can feel Niall’s eyes on him, Louis’ eyes still on Harry.

“I thought you didn’t want to know his life story,” Niall mumbles between chewing, his tone amused and entirely too self-satisfied. 

“Right. Well,” Louis ignores him. “You want me to shift him and take him back to his room then, yeah?”

“Yeah, and do you think you could set an alarm for eleven on his phone, too? It’s in his jeans. He’s got an introductory lecture at twelve that he really doesn’t want to miss.”

Louis nods absently as he pulls back the duvet covering Harry's chest, noting the sleep mark by his pink mouth, and gently strokes his shoulder to wake him.

Harry stirs, moaning, deep and rumbling. Louis clears his throat. "Come on. Wakey, wakey, Sleeping Beauty."

Harry blinks his puffy eyes open—a tad bloodshot but achingly green in his white button up, which is almost half undone, revealing pale smooth skin underneath the thin, almost translucent fabric. Fuck, is that sheer? Louis has to force himself to stop staring and hastily launches into helping Harry to his feet.

"Where am I?" Harry mumbles sleepily, movements languid and sluggish as Louis discards the duvet from around his shoulders.

"You're at Niall's." Louis looks at the blonde boy in question, who gives Harry a wave and a tired smile. "You slept here last night and now I'm taking you back to halls with me, okay? Oh, I’m Louis Tomlinson. Remember me? You dropped by to see Tomlinson Senior? About the exhibition?"

Harry stares lazily down at Louis, eyes boring into his, though Louis can't be sure Harry is actually awake enough to register him much. His brows furrow slightly before he’s half-heartedly rummaging one of his hands through his mussed hair.

"Okay," is all he says, nodding slowly and letting Louis manhandle him easily, despite as Niall said, being extremely dead weight and leaning into Louis’ body heavily.

"Christ, you're gonna break me neck." Louis winces as he takes Harry's arm and slings it over his shoulders, holding onto his wrist. Louis winds his other arm around Harry's narrow waist, and the two of them stagger out the door, Harry's trench coat bunched under his armpit that Niall so helpfully hands him at the last moment.

"Cheers, mates. I'll see ya later!" Niall shouts on their way out.

"Niall, please!" Louis screeches. 

Harry moans again, head lolling into Louis’ space with his eyes closed and looking very, very pale. 

They struggle down the stairs and manage to get outside the front door. Harry lets go of Louis and makes it past the gate before he grimaces, clutching his stomach.

"Shit, you're gonna hurl, aren't you?"

Harry opens his eyes and nods apologetically.

“Alright, come on, mate," Louis sighs. This was not how he planned this morning to go. Nowhere was vomit going to be involved in his proximity, nevermind someone else’s.

Louis hauls Harry over to the nearest unfortunate bush and lets the other boy get down to business. He patiently waits until he's done, feeling even worse for wear himself now as he tries to block out the gagging noises coming violently from Harry’s throat, rubbing soothing circles into Harry’s warm back. It's probably helping him more than Harry, though.

Then at last, Harry unsteadily stands upright from his crouching position on the ground, and Louis definitely does not linger on the curves of his back, traceable underneath his thin shirt.

Nope, Louis drapes Harry’s coat over his shoulders, and slowly walks him home. 

**

When Louis finally hauls himself and Harry back to halls, he’s knackered. And yes, after not a lot of deliberation, to be fair, he caves and crawls back into his bed after leaving Harry safely tucked into his own, fully clothed, (but he did up his buttons because there’s a chill in the air and it’s not like he wants the boy to be cold). Louis took off his shoes, too, (that was a task and a half) amused by Harry muttering nonsensical words under his breath, obliviously handsy and grabbing onto every part of Louis he could sleepily reach.

Once he’d got him lying on his side, Louis threw the quilt over his long, lithe body and made sure to leave a glass of water on the side table next to his bed, setting an alarm for Harry on his phone to wake him up for his lecture like Niall asked him to.

There—a good deed done for the day in the shape of dropping off a hungover, curly-headed first-year. And Louis didn’t even complain when (like Niall experienced in his futile attempt to shift this lanky, drowsy boy) he got smacked right in the cheekbone for kindly depositing him in his room. Louis laughed, though, when it seemed like Harry was aware he’d hit out and he took one of Louis’ hands in his, eyes still closed, and gently stroked the back of it with his thumb.

Funny, endearing, sleepy boy.

However, now settled into bed, Louis’ own peace is short-lived.

It’s not even been an hour. Louis wakes up with a jolt, startled by what he finds.

Which is a seemingly asleep _Harry_  lying beside Louisin his  _bed_.

The boy is actually  _in bed with him._

What the fuck?

Harry’s under the covers and everything, his arms wrapped around Louis’ middle quite bloody tightly, limbs shaped and folded around his, and not only that... he’s rock hard against Louis’ bum.

What is going on here? Does the kid sleepwalk? Is he some kind of weirdo pest? Is he under the impression that he can just waltz into someone’s room uninvited and snuggle up with them after exchanging only a few simple words?

For all Louis knows, Harry could have killed him in his vulnerable, unconscious state.

He’ll be having words with Niall about this mess.

Louis reaches down to his joggers and searches around for his phone, careful not to disturb Harry, for fear he’ll turn out to be some kind of programmed sleeper that awakes suddenly with night terrors and smacks him the face again.

A low groan escapes the boy’s lips. His arms tighten further around Louis’ waist, and plants his cold nose behind Louis’ ear, practically nuzzling the hair at his nape.

Harry is  _nuzzling_  him. Louis doesn’t even  _know_  him.

He tenses up, disorientated.

Because what the hell is this?

Has Louis lost a significant part of his memory or something?

He's pretty certain they've not done anything frisky, so? And he’s definitely not aware of any bodily tell-tale signs of such activity. So, after much shifting and vigilant wriggling around, Louis finds his phone, slowly removes it from his pocket and dials the last number: Niall.

The fucker picks up on the sixth ring.

“Niall, do you know why Harry thinks it’s okay to be cuddling me in my fucking _bed_ without me being aware of it?” he hisses down the phone, jolting when Harry snores abruptly, heavily breathing in his ear.

Bizarre, is what this situation is. And Louis is sleep deprived so he really isn’t finding this funny.

“Oh, shit,” comes Niall’s response. “To be honest, I’m not surprised. I thought he might take to you.”

“ _You what_?”

“He sleepwalks,” Niall says simply, starting to mumble. Does he ever stop eating? “It’s gotten quite bad recently. He can end up doing some pretty odd stuff. But mostly he does this, yeah.“ There’s a pause, and when Niall speaks again, he’s mumbling further, like he’s just shoved a spoonful of pudding in his mouth. Probably. “He’s got into bed with me a few times when he’s stayed at mine before. It’s fine, though. It doesn’t happen all the time. But it’s quite a common thing, you know. Sleepwalking. Didn’t it happen to you sometimes?”

Louis sighs, irritated. He’s going to miss his second lecture of the day, the way things are going.

“So what do I do? Wake him up, yeah? This is unacceptable, Niall. It’s weird. Boundaries have been crossed here.”

“Just chill, it’s fine. Harry’s harmless. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Be nice to him, yeah? Louis? He’s been through a time of it lately. He’s been kind of sad. A bit. So just be nice.”

Louis feels insulted. “Excuse me? I’m always nice, and what do you mean?”

“It’s not really my business to tell, mate. He’s just had a pretty rough time. Stuff at home, and other... stuff. He really needs to able to settle into this place, okay?”

“Okay, that’s—well, I’m sorry to hear that, genuinely, and I’ll help him with that, of course I will, but he’s in my bed, Niall,” he says again, trying to lower his voice. Harry hasn’t moved a muscle, only his eyelashes flutter, tickling Louis’ neck. “He’s holding me like I’m his fucking teddy bear!”

Niall starts to cackle on the other end. “Aw, that’s so cute! I really think you guys would be cute together," he says conversationally. What is with him?

“Wait. Are you seriously trying to matchmake us right—oh, forget it,” he grits, ramming his phone down onto the bedside table. Harry still doesn’t even flinch. Louis wishes he could sleep that fucking soundly. He can’t remember the last proper night’s sleep he had. Which is... depressing. 

He sighs, delicately turning over in Harry’s arms, and stares at the other boy—

Who looks... adorably peaceful, actually.

Louis' face softens, exhaling. 

Harry’s a real life, fairytale Disney prince, it seems. With his cheeks practically the colour of plush ivory, his lips swollen and bitten cherry red, and his fluffy brown curls the shade of milk chocolate, tinged with caramel tresses.

Yeah. Harry really is quite beautiful to look at and Louis can already feel his annoyance rapidly dissipating, eyes fastened on the bow of Harry’s heart-shaped mouth, just looking at him.

And unfortunately, although Louis is already behind on his first day back at uni, he can’t bring himself to wake Harry, content to stare at his serene, innocent form, watching his slack mouth inhale and exhale (quite loudly as it goes), and noting the way his eyelashes flicker in his dreams. Louis hopes they’re nice ones.

His breaths are soft against Louis’ face and suddenly Louis really can't find it in him to be irked anymore, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

So, begrudgingly, (or not so much) Louis allows this soft kitten creampuff to stay, unable to tear his eyes away from the gentle way Harry’s shiny eyelids flicker as he falls back to sleep.


	2. Two

 

Louis wakes up to an infuriating vibrating sound hammering against wood, a mouth like sandpaper, a dead arm, six missed calls and several unread texts.

It’s also  _dark._

But it’s the empty bed that has his immediate attention as he stares at the other side of his pillowcase, wrinkled with the outline of where Harry lay cocooned in and clinging to him like a koala bear. Louis warms at the memory, which is quickly replaced by a more lukewarm feeling.

Because in another surprising turn of events, Louis might possibly be a bit sad that Harry’s already left. He pictures Harry sneaking out of bed once he realised where he was and who he was snuggling against, and deducts that Harry must be mortified.

Louis would be, too, if he unknowingly got into bed with a practical stranger with a hard-on.

He turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling, rubbing his face with a mind whirring—one that’s surprisingly full of pondering thoughts about Harry Styles.

Huh, well, that escalated quickly.

He whips off the duvet and heaves himself up to stand, eyes a bit crusty from sleep, wincing when his bare feet hit the laminated flooring, immediately intent on searching for the other boy to let him know everything’s cool and if he needs someone to talk to, Louis is all ears.

His feet stick to the floor as he makes his way into the shared kitchen, and if Louis is perhaps thinking about casually making breakfast to coax him out of his room, well, that’s, just... nice, right? It’s nice. Not at all needy or overbearing behaviour from someone who's still basically a stranger. Because who doesn’t like breakfast? And who doesn’t like it being made for them?

Yes, Louis is being completely obvious and fully intends to cook a fry up merely to lure Harry out as an excuse to talk to him. Because apparently when Louis woke up this morning it happened to be Desperate O’ Clock. 

But his stomach is grumbling for something to eat and his cells are craving his usual cup of tea, anyway—even if he is feeling a slight smidgen of guilt over the fact he’s managed to tarnish his perfect attendance record after just one bloody day.

Well, it might even be two days at this rate, depending on how his morning chat with Harry goes. Christ. He really did wake up at an hour reeking of neediness and desperation over a night of accidental cuddles. Shameful.

He quickly gets dressed, pulling a navy hoodie over his head and decides to grill some bacon. (That’s if Perrie hasn’t got there first.)

The kitchen and hall lights are on, but there’s no one here yet, (or up yet) so it seems the kitchen is all Louis’ for now.

And just what _is_  the time, exactly?

Louis spins around to spare a glance towards the weird ass clock above the fridge shaped like... Australia? Eh. It doesn’t really look like it, the arse end is all wrong. Anyway. It’s almost half past eight in the evening.

Oh shit. _Eight._  In the  _evening._

Fuck, has Louis really slept for the entire day?

Whoops. He’ll have to make sure to arrive extra early to his lecture tomorrow morning, sit right at the back of the theatre and pray the his tutor forgets to half arse the register. If he does ask, Louis will insist he was here both days and have to bribe someone for the notes. But it was likely just an introductory lesson and overview of the semester, anyway. (Louis hopes.)

Well, nevermind. Dinner it is then, and onwards and upwards and all that jazz. (Okay, he might still be a bit on the drunk side.)

He fishes his phone out from his back jean pocket and notices the missed calls are from Niall, and there’s a few texts, all from his mates asking where he’s been all day, if he’s even back on campus and if he’s coming out tonight. (Again? Ugh. No.)

He makes some tea and wolfs down two pieces of toast with slices of melted cheese on top instead of the bacon sandwiches he was going to make, (he doesn’t want to see Harry when his hair is stinking of bacon) and when he’s drained his tea, and scrolled through his phone a bit, replying to messages and sending Niall the most offensive emoijis he’s got, Louis finds that he’s bored, exhaling impatiently at the table, tapping his fingers against it like drums.

He could go out. He’s slept virtually all day long, but he’s sworn off drinking for at least a few days. He’s got to give his liver a break at some point. And he’d rather not feel like shit three days in a row, thanks. He’s only just barely recovered from an almighty hangover as it is.

That sleep did wonders, though. God, he slept for  _hours_? He  _slept_. Louis actually had a proper sleep in god knows how long. That in itself is an achievement. Maybe he should be thanking Harry for intruding his bed chambers at such a late hour. Because that was the best sleep he’s had in ages. ‘Twas a fine and most glorious snooze after months of excruciating episodes of insomnia.

It’s amazing, to be quite honest. They should figure out some kind of snuggling arrangement if this wasn’t only a fluke. Louis will feel right as rain again in no time if this is what it takes to get his sleeplessness cured. (Harry might truly be an actual wizard.)

And he’d really like a snuggling partner. And Harry happens to also be a really cute one, too.

Jesus, maybe Louis really is still smashed. He feels clear headed enough, if a bit floaty and a bit dazed.

It’s now he realises with a start that he’s actually still waiting for Harry to come out of his room and join him here at the kitchen table. And possibly work on earning the privilege to stick his tongue down his throat. (Or, you know, something similar put in more tasteful terms. But Louis  _would_ like to know how Harry tastes...)

(Yeah, okay, that definitely wasn’t tasteful.)

Good grief. Louis needs to find the grip he’s lost. Harry probably stole it and hid it in all that incredible hair he has. Because what is wrong with him?

Louis sighs, resting his chin atop his arms and contemplates his options for this evening. The time is still only a quarter to nine. There’s a lot more that can be done in the hours before midnight, you know.

He could go wandering around the campus for that artsy, green-eyed, pretty boy, perhaps?

Or he could just knock on his door instead.

Louis sits up and pushes his chair back with a screech across the tiles, checks his hair out in the microwave’s dark reflection (hmm, it’s a tad overly fluffy, but it will do—he’s super cute and soft when he’s just woken up. He’s had many compliments) and pads out of the kitchen and into the hall, ready to get his flirt on and seduce this Styles boy if he’s lucky.

That role for a nice pair of lips Louis needs to warm him up this semester is still up for grabs and Harry is the front runner so far. (His lips look super nice. Maybe the nicest he’s ever seen.)

He knocks once. Twice.

Three more times.

Louis frowns at the lack of response. Maybe Harry is out, or with the rest of the boys? Niall might have dragged him out for the second round, in fact. (Though how Louis didn’t notice Harry around last night is a mystery.)

The missed calls could have been to let Louis know where they are? Those were from four hours ago, though. Louis’ brows crease more deeply.

Okay, so the two options are: call Niall back and hope Harry is hanging at some bar with him, or he can go back to bed and hibernate some more.

A deep yawn escapes Louis’ lips.

Right then. Going back to bed it is. Operation Woo Harry Styles can wait until tomorrow.

**

The next day, Louis is up bright and early. He actually bothers to eat a whole bowl of cereal for breakfast, rather than settling on scrambling to get dressed and struggling to be on time to his lecture with his stomach grumbling in protest.

He even engages in some banter with some of the other early risers as the radio plays Lorde’s new song and he listens to Stan drone on and on about a girl he met last night, but he seems happy and if his mates are happy, that’s all Louis cares about. And then there’s Perrie, bless her heart, who is nice enough to be styling Louis’ hair for him while he drinks his tea.

He really quite adores Perrie. She was the first person he met on his first day last year, and like Louis, had deferred for a year after college in the hopes of doing a bit of soul-searching that fell flat.

He didn't want to use his father's money to go travelling (not that he probably would have agreed to it, anyway) and ended up doing hellish shifts at a forever busy coffee shop while daydreaming about doing something more with his life, (his father was furious that he wasn't attending uni already so that was fun) and going home to pitifully eat dry cereal out of the box in the conservatory, watching old episodes of _One Tree Hill_ as he was drunk-dialled repeatedly by one of his father's girlfriends, seemingly thinking he was his dad. (Accidental or not, it was disturbing and unsettling to the say the least.)

Sad times.

And Perrie, like Louis, is also a child of a messy divorce, so that helps their strong bond as well. Their days often made up of gossip-filled, Munchies-heavy study sessions in the library with disposable cups of tea. And their nights generally consist of karaoke at the student bar, getting smashed on too many vodka cranberries, while they scream the lyrics to Anaconda, and end with falling asleep slumped against each other on the bathroom tiles.

Good times.

“I’m quite happy to fix  _your_  hair for you now, Pez. Needs a bit of pruning, don’t you reckon?” he blinks innocently up at her, imitating her accent abysmally.

She smirks, giving him a playful whack over the head.

“How very dare you. My hair is already fabulous, thank you,” Perrie insists, feigning offense. It is actually. She’s got pink and purple tones in her light blonde hair, wavy to perfection. A real life mermaid, she is.

“That is true. I don’t know what came over me. Someone must have spiked me tea.” He winds his arms around her neck as he stands up and plants a chaste kiss on her cheek.

She burrows into him, pushing their faces together happily before she remembers her makeup and ruefully wipes at his cream jumper, her powder foundation smudged all over it.

“Oh shit, sorry!”

“If you wanted to mark your territory, love, you should have said,” he teases.

Perrie smirks with narrowed eyes, giving his arm a squeeze. Her gaze then shifts behind him. “Oh, alright, Harry?” she smiles. “Finally strolled in, have you?”

Louis’ eyes widen as he stares at Perrie, whose brows furrow in confusion.

Harry. Harry’s here. Amazing Cuddler and Gets-Into-Your-Bed-While-Sleepwalking Harry.

Louis swirls around in his Iron Man socks and is greeted with Harry’s sleepy, breathlessly gorgeous form.

He’s cuddled with this boy.

This dazzling green-eyed boy with porcelain skin and mussed curls. Clad in a burgundy knit jumper and skinny black jeans ripped at the knees, despite the autumn chill, and his jumper is loose enough that it exposes his collarbones.

Which, fuck, are just—

Louis’ eyes hastily divert from the piece of heaven he's seen, his vision scanning further down until they reach the surprisingly clean white pair of Converse on Harry’s feet.

“Oh, hey. No, suede boots today, then?” he smiles, recalling the mighty struggle to remove them yesterday morning.

Harry’s eyes seem to flicker with mild alarm, and there’s an uneasiness in the way he’s standing, in his expression, stiff and off-kilter, but he slathers on a pleasant smile and replies quietly, “Um. No, not today.”

“A rest for the hipster boots, is it?” Louis says, continuing to smile back.

Harry breathes out a choked sound that might be amusement? Sort of. Very mild amusement. “Hipster? ’M definitely not one of those.”

“Fair enough,” Louis laughs breathily. Harry lowers his gaze.

A heavy silence hangs in the air. And drags on. And on.

Okay.

He wasn’t expecting Harry to jump back into his arms and for him to suggest they resume their cuddling this evening by any means. Of course not. But still.

No alluding to his unconscious choice of sleeping location? Even as a joke? Perhaps he’s just embarrassed about what happened and would rather not mention it? Which is completely understandable. And only mere hours ago, Louis would have been, too, except now he’s fixated on the fact that he could sleep properly for the first time in weeks with Harry there with him.

Whom he still doesn’t actually know, and has barely spoken more than a few sentences to.

So, really, Louis should probably lower his sudden infatuation down a really big notch. Like. Yes, Harry is extremely aesthetically pleasing. But, God, Louis feels like he woke up with an arrow pierced in his back by fucking Cupid. And it’s looking to be a serious explanation for the chill that Louis seems to have misplaced.

He looks back at Harry, who now seems to be about to say something, eyeing Louis peculiarly, a faint blush appearing on both of his cheeks—

And then slides hurriedly past him to get to the kettle.

Louis lifts a confused brow.

“Does anyone want tea?” Harry offers, voice hoarse, looking anywhere but at Louis. Right.

Perrie removes herself from their embrace which Louis didn’t even realise was still happening, his arm automatically following her, hand clinging to her baggy violet sleeve as he continues to stare at Harry standing by the kettle, his jumper almost hanging off his left shoulder, the vein attractively prominent in his smooth, pale neck.

If Louis considered Harry to be hot before he found him in his bed, he certainly thinks it now. Even after he’s seen him barf, he’s still not put off. And his  _mouth._

“Nah, you’re alright, love,” Perrie replies.

Louis blinks, pointedly shutting his own agape lips.

Harry’s gaze then settles expectantly onto Louis, but he still appears out of sorts, uncomfortable. Louis doesn’t like this one bit.

“No thanks, still in the middle of mine,” he lies, the last of his tea having gone cold.

Harry nods, and gets back to the riveting task of staring longingly at the kettle he’s just switched on, head bowed and cheeks a little rosy.

Well, this atmosphere is highly awkward. When he woke up this morning deciding he wanted to get to know Harry, this was not how he envisioned it going. This is becoming a habit, it seems.

It wasn’t that much of a big deal, was it? The sleeping thing? Louis’ over it already. Even though, yes, it was a surprise and kind of weird at first.

But Harry’s acting like he’s committed a murder, for god’s sake. All fidgety and skittish. He’s far too cute and innocent looking to be into homicide, anyway, Louis decides. (And his Converse are far too spotless.)

“So where did you disappear to last night, Harry?” Perrie asks, frowning at Louis’ needy spectacle as he continues to cling off of her.

Hang on. They know each other? Perrie did arrive back at uni before Louis did, so maybe they’ve hung out? He'll be asking for the whole lowdown on this boy later.

Harry glances their way and chuckles, running a jerky hand through his hair. That incredible head of hair.

“Us lot were waiting to start naked Scrabble but you never returned from the bathroom," Perrie frowns. “And it was _your_ idea.”

Louis makes a face, mind hazily picturing himself in the bath for some reason. Weird.

“And  _you_ ,” Perrie turns to Louis now, a playful accusatory finger pointed his way, “Niall called you about six times. Missed my favourite pixie boy. Gorgeous thing,” she coos exaggeratedly, pinching his cheek.

“Misplaced my phone, I think. Thankfully, I woke up with it.”

“Well, seems you two were mysteriously MIA at the same time.”

Louis gives her a look, pinching his brows together.

Perrie smirks. “Anyway, you seem well-rested for a change. What’s the reason for that, I wonder?”

Louis smiles back at her, unsure of what to say other than ‘ _oh, you know, just woke up with a boy in my bed that I barely know clinging to my back like a monkey and sporting a very enthusiastic boner,_ ’ when his eyes fall back to Harry himself, who’s stilled at the kettle, hand poised mid-air to retrieve a mug from the top cupboard, his gaze stuck to the fingers Louis has still grasping Perrie’s sleeve.

Louis removes his hand quickly, oddly feeling like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, and Harry flits his eyes away just as fast, dropping a teabag into his mug, teeth sinking into his protruding lip.

Everything feels a bit weird, to be honest. And did he mention hella awkward?

“Oh, I um, overslept... I think?” Harry mumbles, a slight crease between his brows.

“All day?” Perrie laughs. “I think Louis did, too, by the sounds of things.” She gives Louis another knowing look. Louis widens his eyes at her in warning.

He glances up to catch Harry sending the most minuscule look Louis’ way, brows pulling tightly together as he bows his head again.

Louis makes a disgruntled face. Because, uh, was that aimed at him?

But Harry smiles winningly as soon as he glances back up, a section of his quaffed, tousled hair falling into his eyes. He makes no move to push it away, instead he pours the boiled water steadily into his mug, stirring the teabag around with a spoon, excruciatingly slowly.

“Yeah, so, um. Great start to the term,” Harry sighs. “Can’t believe I’ve missed my first lecture already.” His face is grim as he lets the spoon sit in the mug, letting the tea brew.

Shit. That’s exactly what Louis was supposed to be prevent, wasn’t it? By Niall’s request.

But it’s not like Louis’ even Harry’s friend. Not yet, anyway. It’s not his responsibility to get Harry to his classes. He barely knows the kid. He set an alarm on his phone for him, didn’t he? It’s not Louis’ fault that Harry ignored it and (albeit unknowingly) decided to barge into his room uninvited and sleep in his bed with him, which now he’s obviously extremely embarrassed about. Enough to barely want to look at Louis.

He frowns at the other boy, whose lips are downturned as Perrie helpfully jabbers on, attempting to diffuse the obvious tension.

But Louis can’t help but feel sorry for Harry, a strong burst of sympathy running through him. He does seem to be developing a little crush on him after all—it’s difficult not to when he’s standing there looking as forlorn as a kicked, abandoned puppy. But one missed lesson won’t hurt him. He’s still got plenty of time to charm his tutors, and something tells him Harry is quite good at that.

Perrie and Harry fall into idle chat for a couple more minutes (it’s painful to listen to, frankly) while Louis sits back down, scrolling through his phone, sneaking glances at Harry, who’s not even looking in his direction now, eyes and attention firmly set upon Perrie, although his responses are lacklustre at best.

Which is fine. Perrie is the one talking to him, and it would be rude not to make eye contact when he’s speaking with her, yeah, but he’s not even sparing a look at Louis.

And is Harry really not going to mention or even allude to last night at all? Does he not even remember turning up at his dad's house that week either?

And then before Louis can stealthily slither his own way into the conversation, Harry is wrapping things up, and picking up his tea to leave. “Right, well, I’ll probably see you later, then?” he says to Perrie, not Louis. “Bye,” he smiles, small.

“Yeah, see ya later,” Perrie says. Harry hastily scuttles out of the kitchen to retreat to his room presumably and get ready for his next lecture.

Without even one last glance at Louis.

Okay, so it’s not like Harry owes him anything, but he’s acting like he has no recollection of the bed incident, or the fact that Louis escorted him home. Unless, that’s exactly why he’s not mentioned anything.

He sleepwalks.

Of course Harry doesn’t remember. Louis’ no expert on the matter, but it makes sense that Harry wouldn’t know anything about what he does when he sleepwalks. You generally don’t have any memory of it, right?

But how come Harry hasn't asked about the gallery or anything art-related? He easily could have asked Louis just now, asked if he’s spoken to his father yet but he hasn’t.

Huh.

He was pretty eager that day, though?

Hm, alright, whatever. He must have his reasons so Louis can give him a break. Though he won’t lie and say the lack of attention didn’t irk him a bit. (Louis just doesn’t like being ignored.)

He looks up only to be met with a very familiar glint of hilarity in Perrie’s eyes.

“What?” he huffs, standing up as he re-adjusts his jumper, pulling the sleeves over his hands.

“Did you sleep with him?”

Louis narrows his eyes at her, incredulous.

“You did, didn’t you?” she grins, giving him a playful shove.

Well, technically he did.

Louis cheeks burn. “You could say that, but not exactly.”

“Ooh! Tell me more!”

“It was more  _actual_   _sleeping_  together.”

Perrie’s brows furrow. “What do you mean? He passed out before you could get down to it?”

“No,” Louis groans, passing a hand over his face. “I took him home from Niall’s yesterday morning—I don’t actually know Harry, let me make that clear, although we need to have a chat about when you two met—and I dropped him off in his dorm and well... I woke up and...”

“Yeah?” Perrie drawls warily.

“He was in my bed with me! Clinging to my back. In _my_   _bed_ , Pez. He’d just wandered into my room, got into bed with me and made himself at home. Went to sleep. I don’t even know him! His dick was digging into me bum, as well.”

Perrie falls into hysterics, crouching on the floor.

“I’m glad you find this so amusing, pal.”

“Oh, come on, that’s hilarious! I mean, okay, it’s a bit strange, but—” she covers her mouth as she continues to laugh.

Louis glares. “No, but he sleepwalks apparently, and I just wanted to say it’s okay and no worries, but he’ll barely even look at me,” he whines, folding his arms, fully aware he’s probably coming across as a petulant toddler right now.

“Oh, yeah, I think Niall mentioned something about that,” she frowns, pondering. “But Harry seems like a really good guy from what I’ve seen of him. Was really nice the other week. You should be nicer to him, Lou.”

“One, I think Harry hardly remembers me. And two, how am I being mean?” he says, high-pitched and indignant.

He pouts at being forgotten. His ego may be somewhat bruised.

“I’m just saying that if you like him, you’re going to have to try a bit harder with him, aren’t you? Ask him if he wants to hang out some time.”

Louis whips his head up.

“Come again?”

“Bet that’s what you wish he’d said last night,” Perrie winks.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Who said I _liked_  him? How can I? I don’t know him!” Liar. He’s a liar. Why’s he lying? It’s futile.

Perrie gives him one of her disbelieving looks. “There’s no need to pretend, Lou. Not with me. What’s not to like, anyway? He’s  _so_ cute,” she smiles.

“Uh... maybe it’s the fact that Harry creepily gets into bed with strangers without their permission?” he says with an exaggerated sarcastic tone.

“You said he sleepwalks—” Perrie’s grin falters then, her eyes bulge comically wide. A sinking feeling drops abruptly in Louis’ stomach.

He slowly turns around to find a bewildered Harry standing in the doorway.

Fuck.

“Um, I forgot my phone,” Harry murmurs, blinking rapidly with a face like a deer caught in headlights before hastily leaving again, bag strung over his shoulder and wrapped up in his scarf and trench coat.

Louis drags a hand over his face and groans. “I wasn’t being serious.”

Great. So, now Harry probably thinks he’s a freak, and that Louis thinks he’s a freak, and won’t ever look in Louis’ direction again because Louis implied he’s a freak.

Well fucking done, Tomlinson.

“Shit,” Louis says.                                                            

“Oh, dear,” Perrie agrees.

**

So the following days don’t exactly run smoothly.

Louis manages to sleep right through all of his alarms after hellish nights of tossing and turning and lying awake with a constant storm of noise brewing inside his head, and he’s been late more times than not to his Psychology lectures.

The irony talking about the effects that sleep deprivation has on the mind was too much for him. So he flew on out of there and groggily camped in the library, his glasses doing nothing to stop the letters in his textbook having a fucking parade on the page, and eventually fell into a fitful, uncomfortable snooze on the floor, curled up by a bookshelf, and had to be woken up by one of the fit library assistants with dried drool on his chin. Sexy.

And then there’s the awkward atmosphere at halls.

Like the other night for example.

It started fine. It was all perfectly tolerable, chilled out, even. Everyone was settled, chatting pleasantly in the kitchen as Perrie made their group dinner—since they rarely seem to all be in at the same time—consisting of the two of them plus Jade, Jesy, Leigh-Anne, Luke, Stan, and now Harry. And everyone and their mother is getting on with the boy like a house on fire.

Because when Harry’s not quiet and brooding and keeping to himself, looking utterly vacant and miserable with dark circles painted under his eyes (a tad worrying), Harry turns into a completely different person to the one Louis knows (which is still stretching the word a bit far), actively working on metaphorically charming the pants off of everyone, it seems like.

Apart from Louis’ pants.

And Louis might be a lot bitter about this development.

They've probably spoken a grand total of four words to each other since he walked in on him and Perrie talking about his late-night habits, the look on his face one of pure mortification, and as soon as one of them walks into a room with Louis in, Harry will awkwardly turn right back around as if Louis hadn’t literally seen him.

And okay, Louis might deserve it. He doesn’t know much Harry’s heard him say about the matter of his uninvited, unconscious bed-hopping habit. But this situation needs to be sorted. They can’t avoid each other forever. Frankly, it’s putting an even worse damper on Louis’ uni life at the moment. Uni is supposed to be Louis’ safe haven and it’s currently not. Therefore, this is unacceptable and needs to be sorted pronto.

Louis has been looking for the right time to apologise and just tell Harry (adorably ruffled, but entirely spooked Harry) that he doesn’t think he’s a creep. Far from it. Of course not. And anyway, it really is only sleepwalking. It's not like that's a new thing. He sleepwalks. So what? Louis’ done it before. Niall told him he’d gotten into his room at night once, sat on the floor and started singing a song from  _The Jungle Book_ , so everyone does strange things, eh?

They could be laughing about this already. This is all so stupid and juvenile and Louis’ fed up of it.

He just wants to let Harry know that Louis is aware he’s going through or has gone through something difficult, and that it isn’t his fault if he does things that are a bit less socially acceptable when he’s literally comatose.

It’s just a little hard to attempt to get to know Harry when he basically runs in the opposite direction whenever he’s greeted with Louis’ face.

But there is a silver lining peeping out from the clouds, because there’s also been numerous times when their eyes, have in fact, met.

Yeah. That’s right.

Harry’s been staring intensely at him an awful bloody lot lately, sort of like he’s trying to communicate with his eyes or something, and Louis is compelled to hold this boy’s magnetic, penetrating gaze, attempting to look as unaffected as possible, but.

Well, it’s done  _things_  to Louis.

Things like causing flurries of fluttering sensations in his stomach. Butterflies. He’s got fucking butterflies because of Harry. A soft focus coming over in gentle waves each time the moment comes where their eyes connect and a flicker of  _something_  in Harry’s bright green eyes sparks Louis into a jittery, nervous wreck.

So yeah, there’s that. The staring. Intense, constant staring. (Sometimes Louis wonders if Harry is seriously thinking about eating him.)

It’s awkward and ridiculous, and Louis might possibly be crushing on Harry an insane amount, considering Harry does nothing but look at him for a few intense moments at a time, or give him the odd passing greeting or a custom nod of departure. Rarely.

And now it’s the following Monday.

It’s been a week.

A week since Louis practically carried Harry back to his room and put him to bed, only to find him in his own a short while later and then gone when he woke up.

He’s currently slurping on his tea with indignant eyebrows, watching Harry smile and joke and generally come across as a confident fireball of charisma and sunshine and fucking rainbows as he helps Perrie and Luke with the washing up, his scarlet jumper rolled up to his elbows, hands clad in pink rubber gloves.

Everyone is beaming over his ridiculous words and his dopey faces and Louis would be totally, completely endeared by it all, too—if not for the fact this display of Harry's seems oddly... false. It's not even in a bad or malicious way or anything. It doesn't seem like Harry craves attention or anything like that. No, it’s almost like Harry is trying desperately to distract himself—or them. Louis can’t decide which. It’s probably both. And Louis is growing rapidly concerned over it.

Particularly since the other day, when Niall casually asked how Harry had been, but with a peculiarly cautious tone Louis didn't know what to make of.

So, that’s set Louis off and now he’s a bit worried. If he could just find the time to take him aside and talk to him... but it's now that Harry’s eyes choose to momentarily flick over in Louis’ direction on a throaty laugh, and that flurry of nerves is back again.

Harry’s perfect smile falters drastically as he looks at Louis.

And nope. That’s it.

He’s had enough of the weirdness and the painfully uncomfortable walking on eggshells around each other, seeing as they fucking share accommodation, and because being ignored is not something Louis deals with well.

He wants Harry’s attention, and for some reason or other, least known to Louis, Harry seemingly would rather anyone else’s attention but Louis’.

Louis exhales loudly, irritably taking his teacup to his room and feeling a good amount of satisfaction at the burn of Harry’s gaze following him as he leaves the kitchen.

**

Louis drowsily itches at the back of his neck, blinking his eyes open and just about managing to make out the wall in front of him beneath the static fuzziness, the dull throbbing in his temples, but he’s more concerned with the tickling sensation at the nape of his neck, as if someone’s breathing on it and—

Oh.

Warm hands sneak around Louis’ waist, resting atop his stomach, fingers interlocking in place.

It’s happened again. Of course. Harry can’t say two words to his face but he’ll unconsciously climb into bed with him for a cuddle. Yes. This whole situation makes complete sense.

Louis shifts and turns his body to the other side of the bed, greeted with, as expected, Harry’s peacefully sleeping form, almost dangling off the side of the bed with his bloody long limbs and weirdly elongated torso.

“Harry,” he whispers, struggling to pull him in closer so that he doesn’t roll off and end up on his head and has the fright of his life when he sees Louis.

Harry makes a deep noise, a raspy rumbling sound in the back of his throat that practically reverberates against Louis’ skin, which quickly switches to Harry humming contentedly, scooting his body further into Louis’, tepid fingers finding his own underneath the covers.

Oh, good lord.

Okay, so Harry must really have zero memory of these occurrences, because this is ridiculous. After the way that things have panned out between them recently—namely the silence and the staring and the awkwardly leaving the room when the other enters—there’s just no way Harry would willingly do this again. Maybe he didn't know anything about his sleepwalking, and it was his first time hearing about it when he walked in on him and Perrie?

Nah, somehow Louis doubts that. Perhaps some research is in order. He thinks he’s read somewhere that while they’re in an episode, their eyes stay open and unresponsive. They carry out mundane tasks like opening cupboards or making sandwiches and things, and then get back into bed and go to sleep as normal. So, Harry must be doing all of this, mistakenly getting into Louis’ bed, but is then left with no memory of what happened or why he’s in Louis’ room of all places once morning comes back around.

It'd be funny in any other situation. But Harry is clearly not comfortable with what's happening.

It’s quite scary now Louis thinks about it. Poor guy. He must be so confused every time he wakes up and finds himself somehow in Louis' bed with no recollection of how he got there.

God, what if _that’s_ why he’s so uneasy around Louis?

Harry thinks they’ve been doing _things_ and he can’t remember any of it. Oh, god.

And really, Harry must be going through something pretty stressful for this to be constantly occurring, right? Isn’t that what Niall said? That Harry’s been going through a rough time? Does stress cause it?

He takes in Harry’s sleeping frame next to him, his rose petal, heart-shaped lips, the cluster of loose curls atop his head, the delicate way his closed eyelids flutter, so unassuming and still and Louis’ hand is moving to brush the hair away from his forehead, a touch he can’t seem to help.

The boy stirs and hides his face in Louis’ neck, like an adorable oversized kitten, the softness of Harry’s lips against his goosebump scattered skin setting his nerve endings on fire.

Louis’ eyes fling wide open.

Why can’t he just relax around him? There’s nothing harmful about this. Harry probably needs someone to talk to about the things he’s experiencing. He’s seeking comfort, albeit unconsciously.

So Louis decides something. Louis will become Harry’s friend and make sure he knows he can come to him for anything. People need people, don’t they? Yes. So that’s decided.

Operation Befriend Harry Styles is now on. He just has to find a way to get him to talk first.

**

The coffee shop is quiet, only the soft volume of some alternative nineties band playing in the background that Louis can’t remember the name of.

Louis absently stirs his latte, sitting atop a stool and leaning his arms on the dark wooden counter that’s a little way down from the till, away from the front of the shop, displaying their fancy cakes and illegally large cookies.

There’s a wafting scent of pumpkin spice filling up the dimly lit area, where random artsy illustrations adorn the brick walls and tiny yellow lights decorate the border of the room, scattered with burgundy tables and chairs, candles placed in the center of the tables, a red velvet sofa in the corner next to the window. (He’s accidentally snoozed there on and off many a time, only to go home and not be able to sleep a wink, just lies there hopelessly, thinking, worrying, and generally hating existence.)

Everything’s pretty, vintage, cosy here.

But regardless of the lovely setting, Louis is in a shitty mood.

He’s literally making his forehead ache with how aggressively he’s frowning. He’s just so fucking  _tired_ , so tired of not being able to sleep for more than a couple hours at a time. His eyes are dry and itchy, and he has a headache more often than not. He’s already knocked over his coffee once today—his clumsiness is off the chart lately.

And then there were today’s splendid office hours.

Being patronized and talked down to by some weird, new tutor was not on his list of ‘to do’ things for today, and having said tutor’s coffee split over his fucking notes was also not what he had planned. (At least it wasn’t Louis’ fault this time.) He apologised profusely but still, Louis is not about to let his condescending tone about his work ethic go anytime soon.

Okay, so Louis’ been late quite a bit, but at least he bothers to turn up, unlike some. He tries. That’s what counts.

He sharply tugs down the sleeves of his russet ribbed sweater, adjusts his black beanie as his eyes try to make sense of the words in his psychology textbook, holding onto the sides of his glasses firmly like that’s going to help him. (He’s not Clark Kent. He sadly cannot lazer his way through this text. If that’s even a thing. Ugh, he doesn’t know. He’s fatigued. Leave him alone.)

It’s just a jumbled, blurry mess of letters, and it’s making his head pound harder just looking at it. He feels like he's done a round of shots, not just read a couple of chapters on the brain and how it connects to the nervous system.

He doesn’t even want to start on the statistics portion that he has to transfer into fucking graphs and tables.

Louis kind of feels like he’s an extra in a scene of a nineties rom-com, to be honest. Sitting here miserably, while he sips on coffee and contemplates his generally shitty day, low-key hoping some fit guy will wander in, engage him in some witty banter, before they inevitably fall in love and share a first drunken kiss in the front seats of a car. Naturally, seconds prior to someone throwing up in their lap.

It’s when he thinks he should just pack up his things, order a takeaway and settle into bed in his socks, that the door swings open, bringing in a hefty gust of wind with it, and there, striding towards where Louis is sitting is—

Harry.

Ugh. This is all he needs adding to his piles of Exhausted and Done.

Because befriending Harry is still proving to be an impossible task. And here he is again, hair a windswept cluster of shiny brown curls, fringe pushed up and he’s got on a long black coat, glistening in the light with drizzly raindrops, skin creamy, eyes a dark shade of emerald. And he looks unfairly edible. He looks like fucking art. (And maybe one of these days he’ll catch Harry with an actual paintbrush. Does he actually even take Fine Art? Louis’ starting to doubt it. Where's all the art materials smudged all over his hands that Niall mentioned?)

Harry runs one of his big, ringed hands through his hair when he steps further inside the shop. His eyes look a bit puffy when they fall upon Louis (as they always seem to fall to Louis now), briefly registering his presence with a flash of startled recognition. Louis inwardly sighs. 

Two and a half goddamn weeks of this, it’s been now. Louis expects it. Almost waits for Harry’s eyes to wander over to him, willingly or accidentally, and he’ll soak up his pink cheeks and slack mouth and watch as the mild panic and curiosity blooms in the other boy’s eyes.

It’s quite amusing, really—the effect he seems to have on Harry. Louis’ not going to lie and say he doesn’t enjoy it. Or that he doesn’t enjoy looking at him either.

Because of course he enjoys it.

He’s pretty certain he’d enjoy other things with him, too, but when neither of them can barely string a sentence together, it’s a slim chance they’ll ever be more than a couple of guys who do nothing but stare awkwardly at each other before fleeing to their own rooms.

Tragic. (No, really. It is tragic. Because Louis’ spent far too much time at night longingly thinking about all the details of Harry’s exquisite mouth. He needs help.) Even if Harry has gotten into bed with him again three more times since the first time—all coincidentally after a binge drinking session. (Harry sleeps with his mouth open.) So yeah, that’s a thing he knows now, and yeah. That’s also still a thing that’s happening.

Louis doesn’t mention it and Harry obviously doesn’t breathe a word about it if he does remember.

No, he just stares at him really bloody intently.

Sometimes his gazes are so intense, Louis is seriously reconsidering the possibility that Harry might be into homicide for real now.

(Maybe Harry actually is a serial killer under that angelic baby face, and he’s just plotting to capture Louis, tie him up and keep him in a creepy basement somewhere in the woods, feeding him his least favourite sandwiches and reading to him some god-awful reality star’s autobiography, as he just fucking stares at him with sinister eyes, and ends him with an aggressively deep bite to the neck.)

(Vampire.)

(God, this sleep deprivation is getting out of hand.)

But this time, Harry walks right by him, orders his drink, charms the barista with pleasant words—

And leaves.

Okay, then.

So this time he gets a minuscule glance lasting a grand total of two seconds. If that.

No ‘hi’, or ‘how are you’, or even one simple nod. Not even a fucking look of acknowledgment in silent greeting. He just gets a startled look in his eyes again, and scarpers whenever Louis is near to avoid making conversation. How is Louis supposed to attempt to become Harry’s friend if they can’t even get to the acknowledging part?

What the hell did he even do, though? It must be something else, surely? It can’t still be the bed thing? Has Louis been bitching about someone Harry knows or something? One of his friends, perhaps?

Who the fuck knows. (Not Louis.)

Not even a month ago, Harry stumbled into his back garden and was practically begging for Louis’ attention. Well, maybe not begging. But at least he spoke actual sentences to his face. (Okay, short ones, and granted it was because he wanted Louis to bring him up to his father, but still.) Louis is officially really bloody offended. Being so blatantly ignored like this is not sitting well in his stomach. He doesn’t like it.

Until three days later when Harry gets into Louis’ bed again on a Friday night, Louis and Harry having been left alone together in the shared kitchen, awkwardly darting around in each other’s orbit as usual, while Harry heats up some soup.

Louis’ been awkwardly making himself a sandwich, bundled up in a cosy mustard coloured jumper, his glasses perched on his nose because he’s got a headache and he thought they might help (they don’t) while he sneaks glances at Harry, tracing the shape of his lanky body with his eyes. His legs are quite distracting, the curve of his hips in those jeans—Ahem.

Calm down, Louis.

He sighs, feeling like a creep, and desperate for this limbo he’s fallen into with Harry to change. He’s thinking about asking him to pass over the cucumber in the fridge, just to see his reaction to unwittingly holding a phallic object in his hand. Louis smirks to himself at the thought. It’d break the ice, at least?

But then something miraculous happens.

“Did you want some of this?” comes a deep, syrup-drenched voice.

Harry’s voice. God, he’s been so deprived of it.

Louis freezes, half-wondering if someone else has walked in when, “Soup,” Harry clarifies. “Did you want some, Louis?” he asks softly on a slow drawl. “I’ve made like half a ton by accident so...”

The boy speaks. To Louis. He’s speaking actual words to Louis. At last. Unprompted.

Pop open the champagne. Holy shit.

Harry’s eyes blink owlishly at him as he waits for Louis’ delayed response. For a split second Louis could swear Harry’s gaze falls to his mouth, but then Louis is extremely startled right now by this turn of events.

“Oh,” Louis blurts. “Um, nah, I’m fine. Thanks.” He gives him a friendly smile and Harry returns it, if a little mildly, swivelling back around again, Louis getting back to preparing his lousy excuse for a sandwich. “Maybe pop the rest in a tupperware container. I’ve got plenty if you need one?”

“Yeah, I might do that. Thanks,” Harry nods, smile small, eyes incredibly wide. Green.

Louis’ nods a bit frantically, mouth suddenly dry as he tries to think of something,  _anything_ else to say to him. God, there’s probably a hundred things on a mental list somewhere, tucked into a drawer inside his head that he’s wanted to ask Harry, but right now he can’t think of a single one of them. What’s wrong with him? Brain to mouth connection? System failed. Fuck.

What’s also rather odd is that Harry still hasn’t mentioned anything about the portrait exhibit happening at his father’s gallery to anybody. It’s in affiliation with the university, Louis’ found out. He thought it might have come up at some point. (It’s likely being pushed back to the spring, apparently.) And Harry’s been talking non-stop to everybody in their accommodation, but Louis’ hawk ears have heard nothing to do with art whatsoever.

It’s so strange.

Didn’t Niall say he was obsessed with all things arty? How come he’s not asked to get in contact with his father again?

Maybe he already has?

Questions, questions.

All of which Louis can find out the answers to if he just talks to the boy. It’s really not that difficult. He’s standing right there. He initiated a conversation. This is huge.

Okay, so it was about  _soup_ , but still.

Come on, words.

Five minutes probably pass. And rather than bringing up a topic of discussion other than bloody soup, what’s actually happening instead is a lot of intense staring at a sombre looking Harry (which seems to have become the custom) when he’s not looking—and he’s pretty sure he feels Harry’s eyes burning into the side of his face, too, as Louis places the top slice of some crusty bread over the top of his filling.

Both Niall and Perrie have gone on about what a laugh Harry is, how much fun he is to have around. But there seems to be some kind of existential storm brewing inside this Snow White-lipped, baby-indie rocker’s head. He seems like he’s brimming with a lot of thoughts. Louis’d really like to climb inside there and have a nose around.

Again. Talking would solve that. Jesus, Louis.

He keeps shooting Harry little glances, fetching a plate and putting the sandwich stuff away. He catalogues Harry’s appearance, as he so often does these days. He’s got on a long white t-shirt with hands holding cigarettes patterned onto the fabric, a grey hoodie hanging loosely off his slight frame, and his hair is styled into a quiff but the curls are fighting back, springing out at the ends.

And then there’s that perpetual frown that’s pasted onto his porcelain face now, his bottom lip protruding as he stirs the tomato vegetable soup in a pan on the stove, (that he seems to have made from scratch) staring into the bubbling crimson liquid like it holds the secrets of the universe’s existence.

It’s grating as Louis stares at Harry’s hopelessly cut figure, looking very small despite the broadness of his shoulders and upper back and those long bloody legs of his, but he’s all hunched up and slim like a beanpole and Louis sort of has the overwhelming urge to give him a hug.

It would probably help if he spoke to him first, though. Okay. Louis’ going to bite the bullet, unconvincingly clearing his throat as he walks over to the sink to deposit his used teabag that he’s been brewing for far too long.

“Uh—hi,” Louis says, feeling like he’s waiting for the impact of a twenty foot drop.

Harry doesn’t answer.

Louis frowns.

“Harry?”

Still no response. Is he sleepwalking right now?

“Hi?” Louis says, well, practically shouts as he walks over to Harry and taps him on the shoulder.

Harry whips his head around and jumps, pulling an ear bud out of his right ear—that Louis didn’t see, seeing as it was hidden under his hoodie. Ah.

“Shit,” Harry breathes, green eyes wide as he clutches his chest. “You scared me. I didn’t know you were still there.”

“Sorry.” Louis startles out a laugh. “I thought you were purposely ignoring me.”

“Nah,” Harry says, though his face reddens significantly. "Music." He lifts an ear bud from around his neck.

"Yeah, I gathered." Louis smiles. Harry hesitantly returns it, keeping his gaze. Well, thank god. This might be the longest interaction they've had yet. “Um, so I just wanted to say, like, um. I wanted to apologise?—not only for scaring you just now,” he chuckles, “but I mean, for what you heard the other day?” He squints apologetically. “Well, actually, I guess it was a while ago now."

Over two weeks in fact.

Harry glances back down at his soup and switches off the gas, turning his back and leaning it against the worktop, a small crease between his brows as he fiddles with his sleeves. “No, it's alright. I wasn’t mad at you or anything. I’m sorry for the way I’ve been behaving lately. I know you must think I’m a right weirdo—”

“No, hey, I never said that,” Louis insists, “and I wasn’t going to say that either.”

Louis smiles.

Harry’s face blooms.

"Well, I have been acting weird." Harry chews on his lip, his hands constantly fidgeting with this clothes, his feet perpendicular, continuously glancing down at them. God, he's like a bashful cherub. The complete opposite of the way he's so usually put together. Stoic and assured. Around people, that is. That aren’t Louis. “Yeah, um. I’m sorry about the way I’ve been this past couple of weeks,” he shakes his head. “I must have come across as really strange. And...well, rude.”

Harry’s mouth twists ruefully.

Louis tilts his head to get a better look at the other boy, who’s clearly still uncomfortable as he lowers his gaze from Louis’, shoulders stiff.

“No, I’m really sorry if I came off as an insensitive dick, Harry. And it’s not like I made an effort properly either. To talk to you."

Harry looks up quickly, shaking his head. “What? No, no, I don’t think that. It's just—I'm—" he sighs. “I’ve not been particularly fantastic company recently, anyway. So.”

Louis would beg to differ if the group’s dinner times have been anything to go on. Everyone has been besotted with his company. Louis almost says he’s got everyone head over heels for him, but thinks better of it when—

“I—um. I get into these... moods, quite a bit. I get stuck in my head sometimes. It wasn’t you. Really. I guess I didn’t know how to speak to you? That doesn’t normally happen with me, so, um. You caught me off guard, I think.”

Harry presses his lips together, eyes flitting over Louis’ face closely. Louis feels exposed under the weight of his gaze, so he chooses to focus on  _moods_. What kind of moods? It would explain why Harry seems incredibly despondent at times. But he doesn’t know him well enough to delve into that kind of thing yet. The last thing he wants to do is overwhelm and distress this little birdie that’s only just found the courage to fly off his branch.

"And I mean... you _did_  find a practical stranger in your bed that you’d only spoken to twice before, if that,” Harry smiles sheepishly. He bites his lip again, but he's holding Louis’ gaze with more confidence now. Even if he's still worrying his lip with his adorable squared front teeth and it’s a bit bloody distracting, the way they’re reddening them even more. It practically looks like he’s wearing lipstick.

"Yeah, I can't say that wasn't a surprise," Louis says finally, lightly chuckling.

And Harry’s trying to talk to him here, finally, seeming more at ease, and a bit of nervous lip biting is what’s getting Louis flustered. Jesus.

“But there is a genuine reason for that? You know, I didn’t just wake up with a craving for it," he jokes.

Louis swallows an embarrassing strangled sound.

“No, it's... sometimes I tend to sleepwalk when I’m stressed or a bit upset, I guess? It’s not that serious or anything," Harry adds, gesturing with his hands. "It just happens sometimes, and when I wake up, I don’t usually remember anything about what I do when I sleepwalk. Waking up with you that first time was pretty mortifying. I was embarrassed that I actually got into bed with you—more than once?—and you knew, you’d seen me so...” he cringes. “And I know it must have startled you a lot, so I’m the one who should be sorry.”

He smiles, eyes guiltily round and mesmerizingly green. “So, yeah. Sorry. Again.”

Gosh, he’s so bloody sweet. Louis’ struck with the urge to just wrap him up in blankets and feed him lots of nice biscuits until he feels better. “It’s okay, Harry,” Louis smiles. “I understand. Please stop apologising. There’s so need, really.”

“Sorry.”

Louis gives him a look.

“Sorry.” Harry’s mouth twitches.

Louis shakes his head, laughing.

Harry’s face stretches into the sunniest, most genuine beam Louis’ seen on him so far. A sunbeam. A massive one. His dimples even pop in each of his faintly pink cheeks.

Wowza.

Louis’ stomach swoops right up to his chest before he’s clearing his throat.

“Oh, uh, I—I called Niall while you were— _clinging_  to me,” he gestures, smirking when Harry makes an amused noise, briefly scrunching his eyes closed (fuck, he’s cute), “and he explained a bit of the situation so it’s fine, yeah? Oh, he didn’t tell me any details, don’t worry,” he rushes out when Harry’s face falls. Yikes. What else is there that Louis doesn’t know about? “Okay? So, don’t feel embarrassed. At least I’m warned now, eh?” Louis smiles, leaning his weight on his other foot and tipping his hip out. If it looks flirtatious then that is... absolutely what it is. “I’m absolutely prepared for unexpected visits during the night. I’ll even make sure to wear socks.” He winks.

Harry bites down a smile, eyes glancing downwards.

“I’ve heard it can become a quite a thing,” he teases.

“Yeah, I’ve gotten into Niall’s bed on more than one occasion during an episode,” Harry laughs lightly, smile still dancing on his lips. “I was mumbling about rubbish apparently and Niall said he just went with it. I’m good for sleep, apparently,” Harry quips, mirth in his eyes.

"Oh, I see you work your way around all the boys, then?" Louis lilts.

Harry, though, doesn't blush again as much as Louis thought he would. He beams instead, lowering his head and briefly sucks his lip into his mouth. It suits him, smiling that big, as though Harry is always meant to smile.

God, why is Louis such a sap?

"Only the nice ones," Harry murmurs softly as he meets Louis’ eyes.

That’s why.

Louis' tongue sneaks out as he tries to tone down the grin that's threatening to split his face. He looks down, only to find Harry is still smiling at him when he glances back up.

Fuck it.

“Hey, um, do you fancy going out later?” Louis asks on a whim, just when he’s bodily pulled backwards into a crushing bear hug from behind.

“There’s my favourite Yorkshireman,” Perrie squeals, gritting her teeth in a gormless grin, locking her wrists around his waist.

Louis watches Harry blink on through his squinting as Perrie squeezes the flippin’ oxygen out of him. Harry glances between them, slipping his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, his lovely smile replaced with a deep downturn of his mouth.

Oh, crap.

Perrie continues to smother him with obnoxious kisses.

“Get off me, you pest,” Louis shouts, trying to squirm out of her freakishly strong hold. He turns to face her, and plants his mouth right by her ear so only she can hear. “Get out. I was making a breakthrough,” he hisses. 

Her eyes widen and she lets him go quickly with a poorly disguised smirk. And honestly, Harry looks scared out of his wits.

“Alright, Harry? What’ve you been up too, lately?” Perrie asks cheerfully, making a beeline for the kettle. She’s wearing her thick rimmed glasses, and looking far too smug for Louis’ liking as Harry squirms on the spot, a forced smile pushing itself onto his lips.

Louis’ so confused. He thought Harry liked Perrie? Harry’s been talking to her loads?

“Not much—” Harry says easily, pouring his soup out into a bowl and hastily retrieves a spoon from one of the drawers. “Er, I’m gonna down this and then I’m meeting a friend in a bit, so I’ll um... I’ll see you guys?” he smiles, though it definitely doesn’t reach his eyes. Louis winces.

“Okay, mate,” Perrie winks, swinging her arm around Louis.

Harry’s eyes track the movement and then he blankly walks out the door without another word.

“Fuck,” Louis says as soon as Harry closes his door. “Am I that repellent? Why is he always acting so weird around us? Actually, no. It was you! You scared him off! What’ve you done to piss him off?”

“Pfft. He's got a major crush on you,” Perrie says. “ _Believe_  me,” she insists, rolling her eyes.

“What? How do _you_  know? What do you know, Tink?” he demands, pointing a finger at her.

“Oh, just talk to him,” she shrugs, bending down to inspect the lacklustre contents of their fridge.

"We  _were_  talking! I was trying to ask him out," he mutters.

"Oh, my god! What did he say? He said, yes, right? Of course he said—"

"I wouldn’t know because you interrupted us,” Louis scowls.

"Fuck, sorry! I was trying to play it up. See if making him jealous got him talking to you at last. It's honestly painful watching you two give each other heart eyes all the time. You'd think you were in flippin'  _West Side Story._ "

"Well, he  _was_  finally talking to me until you showed up," Louis grits, sighing as he folds his arms.

"Oh," Perrie cringes as she deposits a clean mug on the worktop and starts buttering some toast that seems to have just popped up out of the toaster. "Oops." 

"Yeah. Oops," Louis deadpans. He sighs. "It's fine. As soon as he comes back later, I'll ask him out again."

"To the bar?"

"Yeah, suppose so."

"Make sure you get your flirt on," she mumbles, wiping the corner of her mouth with a purple nail. "With other guys, I mean. He'll be rocking up to you like a shot when he sees he's got competition," Perrie says, as though she's Mother Wisdom of all things to do with dating. She might be, actually.

"I don't want to scare him off completely," Louis frowns.

He uses his hand to prop up his chin as he watches Perrie make herself a tea, declining one for himself.

"Aren’t you usually going out about now? I thought you had a date?" Louis asks. 

"Nah, I'm happy on my own at the moment," Perrie shrugs, happily munching on her toast as she pours in a bit of milk into her tea.

"Oh, what about that Luke guy? He was fit," Louis notes.

Perrie's brows pinch together. "Hot Luke?"

"No, not our Luke,” Louis dismisses. “The other one."

“What other Luke? Skywalker?" she frowns.

"No, you silly mare." That comment earns him a punch to the arm. He groans, laughing at Perrie's unamused smirk. "I mean from the nightclub the other night. You seemed to be hitting it off well."

"Oh, that guy. Nah. Better suited as mates, I reckon. He was cute, but we didn't really click, like."

"Shame. I would."

Perrie gives him a sideways glance.

"Nah, you wouldn’t. You're too hung up on, Harry." She squirms away from Louis' indignant swatting. "Eh, no, I'm over boys for now," she waves him away, laughing, taking her tea to her room, Louis automatically following behind her.

Harry's room is directly opposite hers and Louis gives his closed door a glance before he enters Perrie's room, leaving the door ajar. You know, just in case Harry decides to retreat and Louis can happen to be there when he does.

"Other than you my dearest," she winks. 

"But of course," Louis grins, flipping his hair.

There's a loud thump coming from Harry's room, as they both shoot it a frown. "I've noticed he's a bit of a clumsy chap," Perrie says as they sit down on her tip of a bed.

“That makes two of us recently,” he grumbles, remembering the tea he spilled down his top this morning.

Louis presses his lips together, skin itching to knock on Harry's door. Perrie must sense his discomfort because she's budging up to him, nestling her head atop his chest when he dramatically falls backwards. Louis' hand moves to play with the pink and purple strands of her hair. 

"So you and Harry," she starts, and Louis doesn't have to look at her to know she's smirking. "You think you made a breakthrough at last? Thank god, because he's been proper moping about you since that first morning. Pining like crazy. It’s cute but—"

Louis frowns. Pining?

Perrie arches an eyebrow up at him. "What?"

"Finding that hard to believe, that's all. It’s frankly a miracle he talked to me today. He was worried I thought he was a creep. And embarrassed about my bed being his unconscious go-to place which is understandable. And then there’s—well, I think he’s going through something. He seems sad. Don’t you think he seems sad?"

"Are you genuinely that dense, man? He likes you, you muppet."

"Excuse me,” Louis squeaks. “I'm a genius. I’ve read a shit load of academic texts, and written many a thesis, thank you.”

Perrie makes a dubious face before her face spreads into a smirk.

Louis shoves her. "Oi! I have! And let’s not get ahead of ourselves. A smile does not equal attraction.”

“Yeah, whatever.” She smirks again.

They seem to get into some sort of aggressive tussle, Perrie's hand pushing into his face as he blindly pinches her stomach. She starts scream-laughing which in turn makes Louis start cackling as he tries to drag her off the bed by the legs. It's all very childish. It’s how they communicate.

Of course it’s this moment that Harry picks to open his door, graced with the pair of them on top of each other and hanging off the bed—and also somehow tangled up in Perrie's bedsheets.

Yeah. It doesn't look good. Not if Louis wants to pull the guy.

And Harry looks, well, he doesn’t look happy.

"Alright, Harry? How's it going?" Louis says, voice strained from the blood flow rushing to his head as he hangs upside down, his hands flat on the floor keeping him from falling on his head, Perrie’ socked foot basically in his face.

Haary blinks, eyes wide and mouth twisted. "I've gotta go. See you later," he rushes out, and then he's gone. The door slams particularly loudly.

“That didn't look the best, did it?" Perrie cringes. “But he does know you’re gay, right?”

"Oh, fuck." Louis falls off the bed.


	3. Three

 

At around four in the morning, Louis’ excruciatingly still awake, spread flat out on his mattress, starfish style, his temples aching and mind whirring incessantly.

Louis huffs into his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut and willing his brain to shut the hell up so he can just go the fuck to sleep. He honestly can't take much more of this. He's desperate to have a proper night's sleep. For once. Doesn't he deserve that? He whimpers into his sheets.

He went to bed before midnight, and yet he’s still wide awake, no closer to falling to sleep any time soon.

He really, really can’t deal with this much longer. At this rate he's going to turn into an actual real life zombie. Everything is shit.

It’s when Louis’ about to admit defeat and get up to make some tea when he hears an almighty clang in the kitchen, like someone’s dropped a spoon into the sink.

Well, it’s not like he can get to sleep. Louis lifts his head up and climbs out of bed to check out the disturbance. Too bad he doesn’t have a bat. His sharp tongue and sinister stare will have to do.

But he probably should have expected what he actually finds.

Because standing in the middle of the kitchen by the table is—

Harry. Eyes open and unresponsive, mechanically filling up a bowl with cereal, cornflakes flying everywhere, scattering across the table’s surface.

So this is Harry sleepwalking.

Louis watches him with bemused eyes, a bit freaked out that his eyes are open but unseeing. He passes a hand in front of Harry’s line of vision.

Nothing.

Harry then disregards the overflowing bowl of dry cereal and pads to—yep. Louis’ room.

He lets out a breathy chuckle, amused as he follows behind him, softly clicking the door shut and watching Harry get into Louis’ bed, smiling as Harry’s hand seemingly pats the mattress for another body.

Louis hurriedly gets in and turns over to face the other boy, whose eyes are now closed, face content. He feels warm as Harry’s hand then sneaks around his waist, clutching at Louis’ hip.

Louis closes his eyes with a bitten smile and listens to Harry’s soft breaths that tickle his cheeks.

It's not a bad way to spend his Friday night.

**

It’s Saturday morning, and Louis’ in town with Niall and Liam, begrudgingly shopping for outfits that look like they’ve come from the wardrobe of Boy George apparently.

“It’s a wicked theme, Lou. Stop being such a downer,” Niall bemoans after his announcement that they’re having an Eighties themed party at Liam’s house this weekend, because his parents are going away on a mini-break to Cornwall.

“I still didn’t say you could have it at mine,” Liam says, brows furrowed in a serious expression as he scans the rails of dress shirts.

Niall raises his eyebrows at Liam’s interest in a plain grey button up. He rips it from Liam’s fingers and hastily returns it to the rack. “Did you not catch the theme?  _Eight-ies_ ,” he says slowly. “Not this bland shite.” Niall gives him a dirty look that might as well imply Liam’s brought dishonour to his family. And his cow.

Liam throws his head back and groans. “Well what am I supposed to wear?”

“I know. We should go as Ross and Chandler in the episodes where they’re teenagers and dressed as Wham’s tribute band,” Louis grins, pleased with his idea. “Or something truly shocking, like that pastel preppy style—and I’m using the word ‘style’ incredibly loosely—you know, with a jumper tied over my shoulders. Yellow and pink,” he sniggers.

“At least someone’s making an effort,” Niall quips, narrowing his eyes at Liam, who just shakes his head with a sigh.

“Aw, come on, mate,” Louis laughs, wrapping his arms around Liam’s neck sideways. “I’ll help you pick something really nice, yeah?”

“Sarcastic dick,” Liam mutters.

“I love you, too!” He coos, hugging Liam against his side snugly. “And may I say, you look extremely fucking fit in that leather jacket, Payno.”

“Cheers, Lou,” Liam smirks, sneaking his arm around his waist as he breaks into a lovely, crinkly-eyed smile. Louis bumps his hip and calls it a victory as they walk further through the shop to find some bright coloured blazers.

He might also be trying to gather up the nerve to go and find Harry and explain the current situation they’ve got themselves into. He’s lost count how many times Harry has walked in on Perrie and himself, this strange look passing over his face. So Louis’ come to the conclusion that Harry’s under the impression something more than platonic is going on between himself and Perrie.

And although that’s a completely ridiculous idea, not least because Louis is gay, but it might be another part of the reason Harry has kept a careful distance from Louis over the last couple of weeks, besides the getting into his bed thing.

Assuming Harry even likes boys. Or that he likes Louis.

But right now, Louis’ never felt more sure of Harry’s stance on him. Whereas before, he was convinced Harry was only embarrassed of his sleepwalking antics, going on to seriously consider the possibility Harry might hate his guts, but he’s now of the opinion that Harry fancies him.

Well, he really hopes so, anyway, since Louis definitely fancies him. (Oh, please, please, please, fancy him back. He’ll start quoting The Smiths in a minute.)

“Louis?” Niall says, smacking him in the face.

“What the fuck?” Louis jolts out of his daze, imagining how the soft, pale skin of Harry’s chest might feel underneath his fingertips.

“Payback for all the unnecessary times you’ve done that to me.”

Louis scowls. But, okay, yeah. Man has a point.

“You’re miles away. Are we boring you?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Right, I’m going to try this on,” Liam announces, holding up a bright blue suit, face on the precipice of cringing, absently looking at a gold chain on the jewellery rack. Oh, my god.

“Walk right past that ugly thing now, Liam!” Louis yells as Liam ducks in embarrassment, hiding behind a rack of jeans, but his mouth is quirking into another crinkly-eyed smile a moment later, giggling a bit as he pretends to  _ooh_  and  _ahh_  exaggeratedly at the atrocious selection of gold plated jewellery.

“Lou!” Niall calls.

“Go on,” Louis tells him, hands on his hips. He turns back to Niall, sighing. “I suppose I’m being waited on to choose my outfit now, am I?” Louis rummages through the folded trousers on display as he walks over to him.

“Yeah, and you better get a move on. Got a date in about forty five,” Niall says, thrusting a plain t-shirt into Liam’s confused hands.

Louis rolls his eyes, turning to face the shop window.

A very familiar head of dark curls walks past, clad in a black coat and suede boots.

“Close your mouth,” Liam chides, sticking a finger inside. “Oh, is that Harry?” His voice perks up in interest.

Louis pointedly shuts it, his rapid pulse stuck in his throat when he realises Harry has wandered inside this very same shop, pausing at some folded tropical patterned shirts.

Okay, so Louis could hide and sneak out round the side of the shop. Or he could go over to him and strike up a conversation, clear the air after last time, and just fucking get on with asking the guy out, lord.

What is wrong with him? He’s completely lost his gift for the gab. Normally, Louis has no problems chatting people up and immediately winning them over, but with Harry, his cool goes to shit.

But it’s not like he’s looking for a boyfriend. He just needs something (someone) to distract him from the mess that is his life. That’s all. No strings. Fun.

Now he just needs to figure out if Harry is up for that and they’re good to go.

Okay, feet. Start moving. One foot in front of the other. Easy.

He makes it half-way to the shirts Harry was inspecting when there’s a soft tap on his shoulder.

Louis swirls around.

Harry’s smiling at him, green eyes vivid and a bit shy, burying his hands inside his jean pockets. “Hi, Louis,” he hums, one hand leaving his pocket to itch his nose, brushing it with the backs of his knuckles.

Well, that was simpler than he expected. “Harry. Hey,” he smiles crookedly, decidedly not thinking about how it felt to have those fingers pressing into the jut of his hipbone, unconsciously squeezing the softness at Louis' waist in the early hours of this morning.

“Hey, Louis,” Harry replies smoothly, bouncing ever so slightly on the balls of his feet. “Alright?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Yeah, bit tired. My back’s hurting a bit.”

“Oh, how come?” Louis frowns.

“I dunno. I just seem to get back aches a lot. I’m on a lot of painkillers right now,” he chuckles. He does look a bit tired, eyes slightly puffy, but still effortlessly attractive. God. “All dosed up.”

Louis restrains himself from offering him a back rub some time. Ahem. (He’ll save that for a later date. If it ever happens.)

“Oh, well, hope it wears off soon.” Louis pauses. “Not the painkillers! The back ache. I mean. The, uh—I meant the back ache, not the painkillers. Obviously, I don’t want those to wear off,” he rambles on. Jesus. “I don’t want you to suffer,” he stutters through nervous laughter. “Obviously.”

What the hell was that?

“God,” he mutters under his breath, covering his mouth with his hand, pretending to itch a spot above his upper lip.

Harry grins easily, chuckling. “I know what you meant.”

“Yeah,” Louis laughs, shaking his head. "Or it could be that you slept awkwardly last night. It's quite an effort for two people to share one single bed," he says without thinking.

Harry's grin falters, eyes widening. "Oh, shit. I didn't... did I get into bed with you again?"

“Well,” he clears his throat. "Yeah."

"Fuck, sorry," Harry says, his cheeks flushing. "I don't know why I keep going to your room specifically."

"Nah, Harry. Honestly. It's not a big deal. You're quite the human blanket." He smiles, trying to convey as much ease and comfort as possible to the other boy, who looks on the verge of bailing at any second.

Harry seems to believe him. And it's the truth. Louis actually wouldn't mind if it became a regular thing. He just has to find a way of bringing it up without sounding like a complete creep. He sleeps better with Harry there, it seems like. He’s not about to tell him that, though.

"Anyway. Doing some Saturday shopping, are we?”

“Oh, I was meeting someone at Starbucks and I was passing, so. Just thought I’d have a browse.” He presses his lips together, scanning their surroundings. “Are you—here with anyone?” he asks, hesitant.

“Yeah, actually, um—”

“Hazza,” Niall greets, appearing behind Harry and lifting himself up with a bounce on his shoulders.

“Niall. Top of the morning to ya,” Harry says in a terrible Irish accent, smirking as he gives him a quick hug. Louis can’t help but beam, especially when Niall gives him a murderous look for the mocking greeting.

“Coming to the party next Saturday? It’s Eighties themed.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Sounds fun,” Harry says easily, eyeing Louis as he accepts Niall’s invitation. “Are you going, Louis?”

“Me? Yep. I am. I’m going,” Louis nods. He’s going to smack himself in the face after this.

“Cool,” Harry says, a smile teasing that obscene mouth. Any second now Louis’ going to start drooling like the weakling he seems to turn into in Harry’s proximity.

Louis keeps on nodding awkwardly, shoving his hands into his jean jacket. “Cool.”

Niall, the shit, stands there with a pleased as punch grin on his face, eyes flitting between them as he brings his hand up to bite on his nails, sniggering. Louis gives him a dirty look, but when he looks at Harry, the other boy is practically glaring at Niall as well.

Louis can’t halt the smirk that makes its way onto his face, but looks quickly away when Harry settles his soft smile back upon him.

Oh, god. His face is too much. How _cute_ is that face? It’s sickening.

“So I have to get going, but I’ll see you later, Louis, yeah?” Harry starts to walk backwards. Wait. No. Come back.

He’ll see him at home. What’s he on about?

Louis nods.

“What about me?” Niall says then, frowning.

“I’ll give you a call later, Niall,” Harry chuckles, sending one more glance Louis’ way as he and his suede boots clunk off to the exit.

“Well, I’m sensing the beginning of a goddamn beautiful love story, myself,” Niall says as Harry leaves the shop.

Louis groans, giving him a shove. This is not a love story. It’s definitely not that. Louis might get to kiss him, though. If the stars align.

“Shut up, Niall. Please,” he scoffs, eyes following Harry walk past the window and out of view, hair billowing in the wind.

**

“Where are you? You bastard,” Louis growls.

He’s currently on his knees on Monday afternoon in the library, crawling around like an idiot, searching for a, apparently, damn near impossible text to find, muttering to himself as he scrapes the knees of his new jeans on the rough, ugly brown carpet.

But at least he slept okay last night. For Louis’ standards, anyway.

And of course the cause of it was gone in the morning. Harry, that is.

_Harry._

Who’s directly sitting on the table mere feet away from where Louis’ crouched on the floor, with his cluster of soft curls tucked under a peach beanie and the unblemished skin of his arms on display. His eyes boredly scan the contents of the bunch of papers in front of him, a pencil in his hand. He absently fiddles with the sleeves of his t-shirt, rolled up to his shoulders, hoodie hanging from the back of his chair, pausing to take a sip of his coffee.

Louis’ stuck to his spot, mouth hanging agape and basically gawping at the other boy, drifting into re-imagining the warm arms wrapped around his body from behind only last night.

Those arms.

It’s all a bit ridiculous, Louis positioned on all fours here, in the middle of the library, unable to tear his eyes away from Harry, who’s sat oblivious and lost in his own world at his table, continuing to drink his from his cup and occasionally writing something down, his other palm flat over another sheet of paper, eyeing it with concentrated brows.

It would be more than a tad embarrassing if Harry looked up at this moment and saw him like this. So, um. Ahem. Louis shoots upright and stands, and gets a head rush in the process, (shit) dizzily gathering up his stack of books and his bag, about to wander over on unsteady feet to Harry’s desk when he's abruptly startled by an unfamiliar voice behind him.

"Hi, Louis."

Louis spins around to see an incredibly _pretty_  boy with brown skin and dark hair resting just above his shoulders. He definitely looks familiar, and his name is on the tip of his tongue as he squints at the other boy, shifting his weight on foot to foot.

"Luke," the other boy laughs, his eyes filled with something far more, well, _fond_ than Louis is comfortable with.

"Oh, yes! Luke. Hey, how are you? You met me and Perrie a couple weeks back, was it? Sorry, my mind is all over the place at the moment." 

Luke, he's now been re-acquainted with, shifts the books tucked to his chest, biting his lip as he glances down and up again. "Yeah, that was me. We had fun that night," he smiles. 

"Um, yeah. From what I remember of it, mate," he chuckles. "Sounds like a banger! Perrie really sung your praises." She didn't. Made it quite clear the other day that she wasn't interested. And from the brief encounter so far with Luke, it doesn't seem very promising that he’s too into Perrie either. No. It seems a bit like he almost has...

"We should do it again soon," Luke says eagerly, more of a question than a polite statement. Yeah. It sounds like his tone is hopeful and... uh. 

Harry catches his eyes instantly when Louis looks over at Harry's table, caught between trying to gently let Luke down and make his way to where he really wants to be. Harry's expression is briefly coloured in a surprised smile when it starts to falter, his eyes switching to Luke, a minuscule frown appearing instead.

"Listen. Yeah. Um. I really have to give someone something important right now, so I'll see you around, yeah?" he manages to rush out with a toothy smile.

It seems to appease Luke though because he's frantically nodding. "Yeah, definitely. See you soon, Louis?"

"Yeah, definitely!" Louis pats him on the shoulder and strides over to Harry's desk.

When he reaches him, a lovely, bright-eyed smile is stretching his large, creamy features. “Louis.”

“Hey,” he replies casually, attempting to come across as unaffected by the v of his t-shirt as possible, subtly glancing at the dip of his pale collarbone peeking out. Louis wants to groan. It’s another abysmal attempt to play it cool, freezing when he finds Harry is still smiling up at him, amused. Damn it. “Mind if I join you?”

Harry shakes his head, his smile crooked. “Nope, course not,” he gestures easily. “Sit.”

“Thanks.” Louis sets his bag down on the chair next to the one he sits down in, placing the two books he did manage to find atop the table. “Alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “Suppose. You?”

“Could be better. This library is like a labyrinth at times.” Harry makes an amused sound in his throat. “And I’m still having some sleeping issues.” He rolls his eyes.

Harry hums in sympathy. “Yeah, I know all about that,” he smiles ruefully, glancing back down to the table. “Um, I didn’t—last night, did I—”

“Yes, you did, indeed,” Louis smirks.

Harry groans, briefly squinting his eyes closed and the laughs as he leans his chin atop his closed fist, elbow on the table. “Oh, my god. I'm so sorry, Louis. How many times is that now?” he cringes, but he's still laughing, so thankfully they've moved past the awkward stage. Thank, god.

“I’d say six? At least,” Louis laughs. “And those are the times I know about," he smirks. "No, actually... it's kind of looking like I get a better night’s sleep when you break into my room,” he says mindlessly. He visibly cringes. Fuck, why did he say that? “Um, that sounded weird. That sounded weird, right?"

“Nah,” Harry says gently, amusedly shaking his head, his hair bobbing along seamlessly with him. “I’m glad I can help in some small way," he smiles softly. "Screw all that ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead’ rubbish. No, thanks. I want my bed now, mate. There's nothing better than sleep. When I'm blessed with the ability to, that is.” He rolls his eyes, mirroring Louis earlier. And Louis giggles, (yes,  _giggles_ ) pressing his lips together to stifle it, eyes stuck to Harry, who steadily looks back. The younger boy's wide smile softens into something quieter, more pensive, but a quirk of his pink lips still tugs faintly in the corners.

“Do you have a lot of trouble with it? Getting to sleep?” he asks.

Louis breathes out heavily, puffing out his cheeks and leaning on his folded arms against the desk. “Well, I’ve suffered with insomnia on and off since I was a teenager, really.”

“Oh,” Harry frowns. “How old are you now?”

“Twenty-one. It started when I was about fifteen. I go through months of it at a time when it’s at its worst.”

Harry hums, mouth downturned. "That sucks.”

“Yeah, and nothing really seems to work in helping it either.”

_Apart from sleeping next to you for some reason._

He keeps that tidbit to himself.

“Doing some work?” Louis says, clearing his throat after the staring between them lasts several beats too long. His eyes slide to the edge of something Harry seems to be drawing. He tilts his head to see a feathery, shaded in outline of what looks like hair and some kind of boxed border, like a comic strip. “Oh, are you sketching right now?” he asks curiously.

Harry is still into art, then. He was beginning to seriously doubt it.

Louis’ hand hovers over it. Harry hastily covers up the drawing with a large notebook. “Oh—this is—I was just doodling,” he chuckles, grinning, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Louis quirks an eyebrow.

“You call whatever that was doodling? You should see my idea of it, mate,” he teases, trying to diffuse the uneasiness in Harry’s sudden, rigid body language.

Harry smiles crookedly, more genuine this time. “Nah, I just don’t really like showing people my stuff unless it’s properly finished, you know?”

“A perfectionist, then?”

“Yeah. I guess you could call me that,” Harry smiles easily, eyes bright and green, those lovely dimples forming on either side. Louis wonders what it would feel like to just press his thumb into one. Would it grow bigger?

Louis smiles back, warmth settling in his limbs. “Hey, um. Seeing as I didn’t get a chance to hear your answer last time,” Louis pauses, noticing the way Harry slowly looks up at him, attention caught, “I thought—do you maybe wanna go grab something to eat? We could go for a drive, maybe, too?”

“Oh, um.” Harry seems to be thinking about it, absently fiddling with his pencil, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

“It’s almost five now?” Louis lilts his voice at the end, loving the way Harry’s cheeks are rosier now. “Reckon you can tear yourself away from your projects long enough to keep little old me company?” Louis shoots him a cheeky grin for good measure, leaning in far more than necessary, and knowing full well the thin material of his t-shirt is stretched out, revealing his collarbones.

There. Who can say no to that?

Something bright flickers in Harry’s face. Something hopeful, perhaps. He smiles again, lopsided and lips pressed together. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Louis nods, a smirk tugging his lips. “Cool. Let’s be on our way then, Curly.”

Harry smiles widely at the name, clearing away his things and standing up. “How do you feel about sushi? There’s this really nice place nearby?”

“I’m afraid I don’t do raw fish, Harry. Too rubbery,” Louis says, face screwing up, doing a faux body shiver which makes Harry laugh a bit too loudly.

“You’re far too good for my ego, Curly,” Louis comments as Harry smiles back at him, Louis about to lead him out of the library doors when his phone buzzes in his back pocket.

It’s Charlotte. This is likely going to take a while. Impeccable timing, his sister has.

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” Louis apologises, Harry gesturing to go ahead. “Lots?”

“There’s a problem,” Charlotte coughs. He can hear the smoke alarm going off in the background. Fabulous.

“Oh, please tell me you’ve not burned the house down?”

“No, but the kitchen is pretty battered, though,” she says hesitantly. “Can you come round and help me now?”

“Not sure I can,” Louis sings.

“Louis!”

Louis laughs. “I’m joking, love. I’ll be there in a bit. Open some windows, will you? If mum comes home to—”

“No, I’m at dad’s.”

Louis’ mood deflates instantly. “What?” he says dully. “Why are you there _now_? Did you go straight after school or something?”

 “ _Yeah,_  I wanted to cook him dinner,” she says, like it’s obvious. “It’s his  _birthday,_  Louis.”

“Oh,” he says flatly.

Birthday. Right.

“Did you _forget_? Louis,” Lottie says, pissed.

“No, I didn’t forget,” he shoots back. “Forgetting would imply I knew something beforehand and wanted to remember it. I did not want, nor did I need to know that it’s his birthday, thanks.”

There’s a few beats of silence on the line. Louis taps his foot impatiently, agitated. Harry eyes him closely with a furrowed brow.

A clatter and a bang sounds in the background. “Lots?”

“Alright?” Harry mouths silently.

Louis gives him a small smile and a nod.

“Why can’t you just be civil for once?” Lottie pleads, childlike and upset. Fuck, he feels like a prick. He doesn’t want to upset Lottie, of all people.

Oh, Jesus. It looks like he’s going over there then. On his birthday. For the first time in, what, three years? Big whoop.

“Ugh, fine,” he sighs. “Alright, I’ll be round in a bit, love.”

“Thank you, Lou,” Lottie replies, sounding far too grateful. Louis’ insides twist with guilt. “He gets home around half seven. I told him dinner’s on the table for eight. Well, that’s the time he said he would be home,” she corrects, sounding unsure herself now. Fuck him.

“Okay, I’ll be there soon,” he tells her softly.

Louis pockets his phone and looks to Harry, who’s looking at him with wide, owlish eyes. “Is everything okay?” Harry asks.

“It’s my sister, Charlotte. I’m sure you remember her.” Louis raises his brows.

Harry smiles in recognition. “Yeah, course I do.”

“Well, she’s cooking and it’s a bit of a mess, and it’s, um. It’s also my—father’s birthday,” he mumbles reluctantly.

“Oh, right. Okay. So, rain check on hanging out, then?”

“Yeah, sorry, Harry,” he grimaces.

“No, Louis, it’s fine. Be with your family,” Harry smiles.

“Yeah, my sister. Not him. Or whomever his latest lady friend is,” Louis says dryly, already feeling a scowl coming on. His temples are starting to pound with the thought of going round there. With him there.

“You don’t get on with your dad?”

“Understatement of the century,” Louis laughs, brief and humourless.

“Oh,” Harry winces.

“Nah, it’s, whatever. I don’t care about him, he doesn’t care about me and that’s that,” he says, far too cheerfully. “I don’t need him, honestly. I have plenty of people in my life who I love and who love me, so.”

Harry stares at him, brows knitted. “Yeah,” he murmurs, seemingly lost in thought, hand gripping tightly onto his bag’s strap.

“I’ll, uh. I’ll see you at home?”

Harry nods, smile small. “Yeah, see you at home.”

Louis gives him one more smile and begrudgingly walks out of the library, Harry behind him and cutely waving him off as Louis gets into his car, Harry having declined a lift, and gets on his way to see what kind of disaster Lottie’s got into.

**

He didn’t turn up until after ten. Of course he didn’t.

Louis was livid. Lottie was crushed. The table was all set, the food in the oven, glasses and candles out. The cake waiting on the worktop.

And the bastard couldn’t be bothered to come home when he said he would, even though Lottie had told him she had a surprise waiting for him.

No, he went to some posh, uppity restaurant with his girlfriend, while his daughter sat at home waiting for her dad to blow out his candles. What a lovely fella.

He consoled his sister, helped her clear up and drove her to their mum’s, who wasn’t the least bit surprised. She opened her arms wide for her and gave Louis a kiss on the forehead and made him promise to call her tomorrow.

Louis drove back to campus with red mist clouding up his brain. Great. There was no way he was sleeping a wink tonight. He’d be too pent up with anger to try to attempt to shut his mind off.

Until Harry sneaks in yet again.

Louis turned over and held him close this time, Harry burrowing into his chest like he was made to fit there, and Louis shook off the cold feeling in his stomach when he woke up to an empty side.

**

Over the next week, things become a whole lot easier with Harry. Surprisingly easy. They greet each other in the mornings, falling into friendly banter and Harry has had tea waiting for him in the kitchen for the last six days in a row now.

Which is a feat since Perrie is often the one to take up that post.

It’s almost as if Harry has deliberately been getting into the kitchen five minutes before her, just to be the one to make Louis’ tea for him.

It’s sweet, and unexpected, and pretty hilarious to watch the way Harry’s hawk eyes zero in on Perrie whenever she gets to the kettle first, Harry scrambling to get Louis’ favourite teacup out of the cupboard before she does.

So Louis thinks it’s safe to presume Harry likes to be needed, and that he wants to be friends with Louis at the very least.

They even go for coffee—this time without the awkward blanking, and instead packed with over two hours of seamless banter and chat, so easy in fact that Louis didn’t even realise the time had passed so quickly.

It’s that easy with Harry. Somehow. And it’s nice. Uncomplicated.  

Louis likes Harry a lot.

He’s got these cute quirks and endearing mannerisms, like sticking his tongue out before he’s even put food in his mouth, or the way his pinky pops out when he holds his mug, or the daft, adorable facial expressions he makes that, yes, Louis has been carefully cataloguing to his memory. (What of it?—he’s also decided Harry’s smug-wide-eyed face is his favourite. Or the scrunchy-nose one. That’s a gem, too.)

They sat inside Louis’ favourite coffee shop, the vintage hipsterish one with all the fairy lights. Harry loves it too, he’s found out, before they decided to go for a walk, all wrapped up in their wintry get up and rosy cheeks alike, playfully arguing about silly things, like which teen shows they watched growing up.

“Nope. You’re wrong. The OC was clearly at better show, and I won’t hear otherwise. The music was phenomenal.” Harry actually closed his eyes, smirk evident on his cherubic face.

“You take that back you melodramatic, trash-loving traitor,” Louis laughed, though he was actually genuinely offended. “One Tree Hill is far superior and you know it.”

Harry scoffed, beam unashamedly on display. It had been like that for the last couple of hours he’d been wandering around town with Harry. They didn’t sit down once on their walk, merely slurped on their iced coffees (even in the brisk weather) in their coincidentally matching black trench coats, the collars popped up like they were characters from  _The Secret History_  or some other disturbing novel about murderous, entitled rich kids.

(Harry cheekily told him to watch his temper lest he turn into one of them, and to lay off the Greek literature. Of course, because Louis reads  _tons_  of that stuff.)

“You literally only watched it for the soundtrack. Admit it.” Louis narrowed his eyes, giving him a playful pinch to the shoulder.

Harry smiled, hands buried deep in his pockets as he shied away from his touch, his suede boots pigeon-toed on the park’s pathway like the endearing boy he is. “I didn’t really watch it that much. I was just having too much fun watching the vein in your head get bigger,” he smirked, eyes filled with mirth.

Louis’ mouth dropped open, feigning deep betrayal. “I am shocked and appalled. How will I ever get over this, Harry?”

“Let me buy you another latte?” Harry offered, both his tone and eyes hopeful.

“Like I’m gonna turn down a free coffee,” Louis said with an eyeroll.

Harry grinned, nose red from the cold. Louis felt nothing. Obviously.

“Nah, One Tree Hill was a much better show in the early days, I agree,” Harry relented. “‘True Love Always’,” Harry said, slowly pumping a cute fist in the air, a coy smile sweeping over his pink, chapped lips.

“Yes, Harry,” Louis chuckled. “That’s exactly it. Love conquers all. It always wins, right?”

“Right,” Harry murmured quietly. He pressed his face deeper into his scarf, hiding his mouth. Louis knew he was probably beaming under there.

Lovely boy.

“Shall we go home, then?” Louis suggested, as the silence hung around a tad longer than he was comfortable with. Especially when Harry’s brazen eyes were still looking at him in fascination, Louis’ cold cheeks actually heating up under his gaze.

“Okay,” Harry nodded easily, lifting his chin up from its cosy, hiding place. “Home.”

Louis ignored the little flip his stomach demonstrated when Harry said the word, his open face soft and young.

“I’m glad we’re friends now, Louis,” Harry told him earnestly as they left the park’s gates, a stray curl falling across his forehead, swept by a gust of wind.

“Me too, Harry,” Louis said as he nudged Harry’s arm with his elbow.

“And as my friend, I shall make you a cup of tea every morning,” Harry said proudly.

“Wow, what an honour,” he laughed. “I take mine with a few drops of milk, no sugar.”

“I know,” Harry said fondly before he quickly looked away again.

Louis bit down a pleased smirk, warm at the idea that Harry had been watching him, noting the things Louis likes, and they fell into step beside each other, arms bumping as they chatted idly on the way home.

**

It’s approaching half eight in the evening, and Louis is really not in the mood for this.

Outside was bloody freezing and the walk here has given him a headache, so he’s irritable, and he can’t believe he got dragged to an actual Eighties themed house party when they could have easily gone to any nightclub nearer to campus that was hosting Halloween parties instead.

But alas, Louis has just arrived to the end of a Wham track thumping through the walls, clad in salmon pink tailored trousers and a pale yellow polo with a matching salmon jumper tied loosely around his shoulders. Like he’s one of the Brat Pack. 

Because this theme is atrocious and so he’s absolutely taking the piss.

Niall barrels out of nowhere and proceeds to fall into raucous laughter when he sees Louis’ outfit, while he himself is dressed in his CHOOSE LIFE Wham t-shirt, paired with light blue jeans.

Good choice, to be honest.

“Oh, my god,” he gets out finally, clutching his stomach and passing Louis a bottle of beer. “You really do look like a twat,” he shouts over Kim Wilde singing ‘Kids In America’. (Tune, that.)

“That was the idea,” he says, dramatically flipping his head, and throwing his jumper sleeve over his shoulder, tweaking at his cinnamon swirl hairstyle. “I still don’t see why this couldn’t have been a Nineties theme, though,” he bemoans. “I had my Oasis sunglasses ready and waiting.”

He puts the bottle to his lips, smirking, until it abruptly slides right off his face.

Because Harry has entered the party in his own Eighties attire: a blue denim jacket with the collar popped over a tight, black printed, Guns 'n' Roses t-shirt, even lighter blue, high-waisted jeans and hot pink Converse on his feet, and then there’s the fucking cross dangling from his ear, hair styled into something like a messy version of a mullet but better. Much better. As in  _hot_ better.

He completely pulls it off. Louis’ jaw is most definitely hanging open, and Harry most definitely looks like his body should be on Louis’ this instant.

And Louis is dressed like an absolute tosser.

Fuck this. He’s not having it. Maybe he still has time to get changed into something else? This is an emergency. Where’s Perrie? He needs his Tinkerbell.

Because Harry is now striding over towards his general direction, a broad smile stretching across his angelic features, so Louis darts out of the hallway and takes sanctuary in the kitchen, making a speedy beeline for Perrie as soon as he sees her, who’s clad in early-era, iconic Madonna gear, hair in a perm and tied up with a black bow, lips bright red and leaning against the worktop as she pours out a vodka tonic, the kitchen not yet too crowded.

“Hey, Lou,” she grins affectionately.

He grabs Perrie’s waist and uses her as a human shield, causing her to spill the tonic water across the work surface.

“Lou? What are you doing, man?” she yells.

“Hiding from green-eyed boys. What are you doing?”

Perrie makes a face, tipping her head backwards. “What are you wearing?”

“I was trying to be funny,” Louis grumbles, “but Harry’s turned up looking amazing. How the fuck am I supposed to try and pull him in this?”

“Shut up. You’re gorgeous,” she says, tickling under his chin. “He’d still stick his tongue down your throat if you were wearing crocs, I guarantee it.”

“Christ, let’s not go too far,” he grimaces.

“What—with tongues?”

“No, with fucking crocs. Those things are the ugliest shoes I've ever seen. Along with sandles.” He shivers. "Help me.”

Perrie laughs. "What do you mean? I've not got a Mary Poppins bag with the entire wardrobe of the Eighties in there, Lou. You look fun. You look fit. Just go with it. Harry’ll still shag you. I’d bet good money.”

Louis whimpers as Perrie unfortunately gets pulled away by Jade, and she mouths an apology and blows him a kiss, leaving Louis alone looking like a fucking Ken doll.

“Louis?” he hears a familiar deep voice say behind him.

Fuck.

Louis swirls around to find Harry’s eyes gazing back at him, his plush lips twisting into a lopsided, close-mouthed smile. “Hi.”

“Harry. Hi,” Louis practically croaks.

“Nice outfit,” Harry smirks, a dimple appearing the right side of his face.

“Back at you. You really went for that denim aesthetic, eh?”

“And you really went  _Miami Vice_? Not that I know what it is. I remember it being referenced in some romcom. Oh, no wait! Is it that rich arsehole in  _Pretty in Pink_  you were going for? No,  _St. Elmo's Fire_! Nah, that’s not right either is it?” Harry frowns, really thinking about it.

Wow, Louis is really listening to all this. It’s endearing. Louis wonders if recording his voice to listen to at night is pushing the infatuation too far. Yeah, probably. Definitely. Way to be super creepy. Why is he like this? He’s never like this. He internally facepalms.

“I didn’t like the theme so I took the piss. Regrettably.”

Harry grins, teeth sinking into his lip, hands slipping into his jean pockets.

Louis slouches, tipping his head back in a short groan as he wipes his hand over his face briefly, eyes settling onto the  _tight_  fit of Harry’s high-waisted jeans.

Harry looks entirely too amused, eyes steadfastly fixed to him and now Louis can’t stop staring at his fucking earring.

“Do I look like a dickhead?” he pouts.

Harry smiles, fondness wrapped inside it and Louis’ suddenly weak at the knees. “What?  _No_ ,” he laughs. “I think you look cute.” His voice is so soft.

Louis raises an eyebrow, a dubious grin settling onto his face. “You’re not serious.”

“It’s not that bad! It’s very Eighties,” Harry insists. “Which  _is_ the theme of this party, Louis,” he chuckles lightly. “People actually wore stuff like this back then. In fact, I’m even sure I’ve seen a couple dudes wear this exact ensemble in Chelsea recently.”

He sounds so much more confident, at ease, free.

And Louis _really_  bloody fancies him. He’s so fucking gorgeous, Louis can’t stand it.

“That's not a comfort to me in any way. That's tragic," Louis says dryly.

Harry grins even wider.

"And look at you! You came here looking so cool and I look like—”

“You think I look cool?” Harry interrupts softly, smile threatening to split his face open.

“Yeah, course, and your Converse are quite the staple. Have to get myself a pair.”

“Thanks.” Harry shakes his hair, and looks down, cheeks pinker than before, threading his long fingers through the front of his fluffy quiff. Louis drifts off into a daze as his eyes follow their purposeful movements. “At first glance, though, you do look quite funny—” he gestures, making a dubious face.

Louis squawks. Harry laughs instantly,  _giggles_ , to be more accurate.

It sounds like tiny pieces of bliss.

“But you still manage to pull it off. You’d somehow pull anything off, I reckon.” His voice is softer, a bit raspier. Louis may have to use the bathroom imminently. For reasons.

Harry lets his gaze linger for longer than what Louis would consider necessary, letting his eyes wander further down Louis’ body, literally giving him a once over.

Interesting.

Louis awkwardly clears his throat.

Harry’s eyes flick up and settle back on Louis’, his mouth parting on an intake of breath when Perrie is suddenly swinging her arms around Louis’ neck. He doesn’t miss the moment Harry’s face changes when Perrie appears.

Even more interesting.

“Harry! You look mint!” she grins. Louis smirks because Perrie seems to be completely aware of what Louis himself has been wondering about Harry’s intentions towards him.

This whole week, he’s seen a completely different side to Harry—a more confident, charismatic, goofy, and yet effortlessly poised.

And Louis is hooked. He's definitely sensed the chemistry between them, relaxed into their easy interactions, and Harry’s obsessive mission to make his tea for him each morning is ringing alarm bells so...

“Thanks,” Harry says, smiling amiably, but there’s tension in his shoulders. (How Louis can tell that already he doesn’t know.) “You look awesome by the way.”

“Aww, cheers, pet!” She winks Louis’ way and plants a kiss on his cheek, leaving a bright red lipstick mark in her wake. He stares at Harry as she fusses over it. The other boy keeps his eyes on the floor until Perrie’s dragged away with the girls, a tall glass in her hand. “Get him,” Perrie mouths on her way out.

Louis shakes his head, cheeks hot.

Harry shifts on his feet, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders hunched and expression on the deflated side.

“Do you want a drink, Harry?” Louis says, suddenly awkward as he wipes at the remnants of lipstick on his face with the back of his hand. Harry notices the movement when he looks up, pursing his lips with a frown.

Louis makes his way over to the fridge and takes out a bottle of Bud, throwing it at Harry who scrambles to catch it, eyes wide.

“Good catch.”

Harry smiles. “Cheers. I’m an expert in catching things.”

Louis smirks, pretending to recoil and taking a large step backwards. “Remind me not to come near you, then.” He feigns another repulsed look for good measure. “Have you ever heard of protection, mate?”

It takes a few seconds for Harry to clock what Louis means, his eyelashes taking a couple of slow, owlish blinks, his brows furrowing in confusion before he covers his face with his hand and groans, muffled.

“What?” Harry shrieks. “Oh, god, that sounded... I didn’t mean that!” He cringes, momentarily screwing his eyes closed and laughs, taking a bottle opener off the worktop surface and opening it with a click.

“Yeah, alright,” Louis rolls his eyes, relishing in teasing him.

“Shut up.” Harry shakes his head, grinning, his thumb absently circling the rim of his bottle.

It’s distracting. Jesus.

“I mean, you’ve seen me throw up, and you didn’t catch the lurgy,” Harry grins. “But that _was_  mortifying. Especially in front of _you_.”

Well, then. “Why? Because I’m your ticket to art stardom?” Louis teases, blinking coquettishly.

“Nooo,” Harry smirks, “because I’d wanted to talk you properly for ages,” he drawls. “I just couldn’t find the nerve.”

“Since you turned up at the house?” Louis smiles, tone playful.

“Before then,” Harry admits, taking another sip, eyes stuck to him as he swigs the bottle back.

What?

“You’d seen me around campus before that day?” Louis says, voice slightly more squeaky than he’d like it to sound right now.

Harry’s mouth quirks infinitesimally. “Yeah,” he nods, smile more prominent. “Well—I saw you about a week before I met you that first time? We were at a house party together, actually. It was some place. Massive. I was with Niall and I met Liam there and a few others. You turned up with some more friends, too.”

Louis frowns, trying to place the evening. “Was it on a weekend?”

“Yeah, around Niall’s birthday.”

“I don’t remember you being there.” Louis frowns harder, slightly miffed. He wouldn’t have forgotten a face like Harry’s, that’s for sure. Something uncomfortable settles in his stomach.

“It’s fine. It was loud,” Harry chuckles, though it doesn’t sound entirely convincing to Louis’ ears. “There were a lot of people about. Anyway,” he says before taking another swig, “all your attention was being hogged by Perrie.”

From anybody else, that sentence would be a joke. Hearing it from Harry now, with an odd sort annoyance in his voice, a very prominent furrow of his brows visible, well, it kind of sounds like Harry is jealous.

Well. That’s. Very, very interesting.

“And, um.” Harry pauses, a slight nervous crease between his brows. “Another time I vaguely remember using the bathroom and you sitting in the bath?”

“What?” Louis laughs.

“Yeah,” Harry nods, starting to laugh too. “You were very drunk. So was I, to be fair. I don’t really remember what else happened after that.”

But before Louis can decide what to do with this information, Niall is bouncing into the kitchen and grabbing them both by the clothes on their backs.

"Oi, bastards. Dance," Niall instructs, dragging them to the makeshift dancefloor set up in the large living room. The lights have been dimmed right down low, several disco balls placed in each corner of the room, projecting multicoloured circles onto the walls that bounce off the surfaces and reflect into people’s hair.

Perrie sees him and waves him over. "Lou!"

"Pez," Louis nods, grinning with crinkly eyes.

Perrie hovers her mouth over his ear closely. "I'm gonna get you your man," she winks, clearly a bit pissed already. Louis just laughs as she pulls him over to her, dancing like a loon immediately, flailing her arms ridiculously as Louis guffaws harder.

"Stop being so terrible on purpose. You're an incredible dancer!"

"You're right." Perrie stops. "I am." Her eyes cloud with mirth and she smirks, sultrily shimmying to the floor, bending and moving her body as easily as if she were made of elastic to the beat. She winds her hands around Louis' neck and he absently grips her waist, laughing when she turns around and pretends to grind exaggeratedly into his groin with her bum.

"Twerking is so 2013, Pez!" he yells over the music, grinning.

"It's 1983, Louis. I don't know what you're on about!" She falls into him while he holds her up. Louis cackles.

Then, like they really are in some kind of cliched teen romcom, his eyes catch Harry's from directly across the room. The younger boy is mirroring Louis and Perrie's position, a brunette girl Louis can't see the face of pressing a kiss to Harry's cheek. Louis feels a streak of something unpleasant swoop in his gut at the touch, eyes on them as she clutches his shoulders and dances to the beat, Harry's arms loosely clasped around her back.

Only, Harry keeps his gaze intently stuck to Louis. 

Louis’ stomach swoops again, but not uncomfortably this time. No, it's fluttering with an intense amount of curiosity and desire, his attention enraptured by this boy who hasn't diverted his gaze once.

Even as the girl rests her cheek against Harry's chin, his green eyes are unwavering, zeroed in on Louis. They glow stunningly in the rainbow illuminated ambiance, and he’s the perfect snap shot of a scene right out of the decade while New Order’s ‘Temptation’ blasts out of the speakers, and he's staring at Louis with an intensity now that almost makes Louis' breath catch in his throat. His throat dry and a body thrumming with jolts of electric need.

He thinks there's a hint of longing in Harry's lust-filled stare, in the minute downturn of his rosebud lips, the tiny crease sitting between his brows.

Louis dizzily stares back as Perrie presses closer, their cheeks smushed together as she bounces and shimmies on him, the girl Harry's with doing the same as Harry stoically continues to be preoccupied with Louis.

The song thumps on and Harry just watches them, his expression etched in something like  _awe,_ lips barely parted as they sear in Louis’ direction.

_Oh, you've got green eyes. Oh, you've got blue eyes._

Louis' pulse speeds up to the beat of the music, heart thumping wildly in his chest. His eyes stay magnetically glued to Harry's, his hands sliding up Perrie's back. Harry instantly mirrors his action.

_And I've never seen anyone quite like you before._

"Is he looking?" Perrie breathes into his ear.

Harry's eyes are burning holes into Louis' skin and he can't get enough of it. He just wants to kiss him. So badly wants to know what his lips would feel like moving over his. And it seems like Harry does, too. "Yeah," he breathes back, a rush of adrenaline shooting through his veins.

After two more songs, Louis makes his way back into the kitchen, sweaty and gasping for a drink, to find Harry already there with a guy Louis thinks is called Ed. They meet gazes and exchange a wordless smile, Ed instantly making himself scarce. Louis helps himself to another beer from the fridge, gulping half down in one go.

Harry glances at him, then stares down at his own bottle, cheeks more flushed than before, the ends of his fringe a little damp. “Um... Louis. Can I ask you a question?”

“Ask away, mate,” Louis says breathlessly as he takes another sip, leaning his bent arms back casually against the counter, purposely angling his body towards Harry. Because he’s sure now. Harry likes him. This is good news indeed. Maybe he’s found that nice pair of lips at last.

His legs won’t stop jiggling in excited pent-up energy. (Probably sexual energy.)

Harry nods, breaking his gaze. “Like, you don’t have to answer it—I’m not—it’s not really any of my business—”

Louis has a sudden urge to start laughing. Oh, nope, he actually has started laughing. He puts his hand to his mouth to stifle it, but he can’t stop, especially not when Harry’s brows furrow but quickly smooth out to let his own laughter escape, even though he doesn’t even know why Louis’ laughing.

“What’s funny?” Harry grins, a small crease still between his brows.

“Is this about Perrie?” Louis manages to get out.

“Well, yeah, actually.” Harry’s cheeks redden, laughter gone.

“Oh, Harry,” Louis lilts, taking a step closer. Then another.

Harry tracks the movement. “What?” he drawls, face apprehensive.

Louis grins at him, covering his mouth momentarily as he looks away and back again, pressing his amused lips together as Harry stares down at him with a deep frown.

“What?” Harry presses, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

“You didn’t think that me and Perrie are—you know.”

Harry narrows his eyes, lips twisting into a tiny pout. “So, you don’t—you’re not— _with_  her or anything?”

“Oh my god." Louis wipes a hand over his face. "Harry, I’m gay.”

Louis throws his head back with a short cackle and barrels forwards. Harry catches him immediately, his hands (which are significantly bigger than Louis’, he can’t help but notice) coming up to lightly grip onto Louis’ elbows. Louis presses his fingers into Harry’s upper arms over his denim jacket, thumbs brushing over his endearing patches, grinning so hard his face aches.

“And Perrie is one of my best mates, regardless of the fact I’m not into girls. It just wouldn't happen. Ever. Is that clear enough?" He smiles, acutely aware that his voice is embarrassingly soft. God.

“Oh,” Harry says as the realisation hits him, his cheeks flushing a bright, gorgeous pink, smile stretching his mouth broadly. It looks almost painful. “Um. Okay. Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. Good to know,” Harry nods, smiling, maybe even a bit smugly.

“You didn't really think that, did you?” Louis tilts his head as he looks up at him, entirely too endeared with this boy who looks like he could belong to any era. Louis’ having a hard time believing he’s actually real.

“No!” Harry drawls, coy. He’s too cute. So cute. It’s almost nauseating, really. If Louis was a more poetic man, he’d be writing sonnets about the exact shade of the blush that’s currently washing out the porcelain of his cheeks. He looks like romantic words out of a piece of timeless literature. “Well... I dunno what I thought. I  _was_  sure you were gay by the time I met you properly at your dad’s house.”

“Oh, so you do remember that?” Louis lifts an amused brow.

Harry breaks into another smile. “Yeah, of course I do.”

“You’ve not exactly been very vocal about that request since though—”

“ _But_ —” Harry interrupts, clearly wanting to move past that subject for a reason Louis will find out eventually, “then I saw you with Perrie and... you know, you guys seemed... close. Really close. And how was I supposed to know what you identified as?”

“Jesus, I’ve always thought it was pretty obvious, but okay,” Louis laughs.

“Hey,” Harry whines, swatting at him. “I was just worried I was wrong about my gut instinct. Wait.” His eyes widen. “You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”

“No, Harry,” Louis laughs, watching the relief sweep across Harry’s face with amusement, then pauses for a moment, replaying what he just said. “Hang on a minute. Did you say you were  _worried_?” he taunts playfully.

“Yes,” Harry mumbles, cheeks flushing. “A bit.” He lets go of one of Louis’ elbows and tugs on a section of his hair, feet scraping over the smooth kitchen tiles, the rubber of his Converse squeaking against it. “Maybe a lot. I’m sorry I acted like a complete... well, a mess,” he smiles, sheepish. “It’s just, um, I already had a bit of a fixation with you before I went and embarrassed myself and then it just got worse.”

"Fixation, eh?" Louis coos, planning on teasing him mercilessly. All in good fun, though, obviously. Harry is just too lovely.

Harry glances at him through his eyelashes, teeth sunken into his lip, studying Louis closely as he latches back onto the joints of his arms. "Don't act like you don't know how hot you are. It's insulting to my intelligence," he says lowly.

Louis stares back, eyes alight with what he hopes is obvious suggestion, a permanent smirk dancing over his lips, unable to keep still. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He takes a step back out of Harry’s grip, whose hands gradually, lightly brush over his bare arms, following down to Louis’ wrists until Louis leaves his hold.

More people are gradually scurrying in for drinks, the mood growing more chaotic and the atmosphere louder as the music is turned up. 'In Between Days' by The Cure starts as they keep their eyes on each other, taking relentless swigs of their drinks as the kitchen fills up around them, having a go at making some popular Eighties cocktails and attempting and failing to re-enact tricks from the Tom Cruise film, only stopping their own intoxicated laughter to laugh harder at Liam, who appears to have literally come dressed as Rod Stewart.

He’s got on this bright blue blazer, rolled up at the sleeves, yellow trousers and a pink vest on underneath it.

It’s shocking.

“What?” Liam blinks. “This is the theme!” he pouts, self-consciously tugging on the lapel of his blazer. “You told me it was alright?”

Louis’ on the floor in fits, Harry joining in with his high-pitched hyena laugh, clutching his stomach as he bends backwards. (My, my, he’s flexible.)

They continue to stare at each other as the time ticks by with coquettish eyes and amused smirks, engaging in chat with people who come over to see them, when Niall comes bounding over, swinging his arms around both of Harry and Louis’ shoulders, squishing them all together in a tight hug, their eyes still embarrassingly stuck to each other.

“Ah, two of my favourite people getting proper acquainted,” Niall observes, grin wide and eyes already starting to look glazed over. “That’s what I like to see.”

Harry bites down on another of his knockout smiles, dimples out in full bloom, still smirking at him like they’re sharing a private joke. Louis returns it, feeling increasingly hot under his stare.

“Lou likes drawing too, don’t you, Lou?” Niall says suddenly.

Louis frowns at Niall with all the threatening power he can muster in his eyes without moving a muscle in his face. “Why did you feel the need to point that out?”

Niall, the fucker, laughs.

“Yeah?” Harry asks then, eyes widening slightly, spiked interest dotting his green irises.

Great.

“I just doodle really,” Louis shrugs. “Stick men, paper aeroplanes, smiley faces, stupid shit like that. That’s all. Not like you, mate.” Louis takes another swig from his beer. “I’m not the one studying for a degree in it.”

Harry’s brows pinch and he brings his thumb and forefinger up to his mouth, squeezing his bottom lip. “Yeah, but, that’s still cool.”

“Yeah, don’t put yourself down, Lou. Your sketches are sick,” Niall says, pulling him back in again and squeezing his back to his chest.

They’re really not quality in any way—a way to pass the time, if anything (even if he does enjoy messily constructing doodles)—and he doesn’t even know why they’re having this meaningless exchange, but Harry seems to be genuinely interested in Louis’ stick figure creations, and the fact causes a laugh to bubble up his throat as Harry listens to Niall’s rambling about the things he’s drawn for him, and how he’s planning on getting one as a tattoo. (That is not happening.)

“Draw something on me,” Harry says then suddenly, holding out his forearm to Louis and rolling up the sleeve of his jacket further up to his elbow.

“Huh?”

“Tattoo me,” Harry says, arm extended and waiting.

Louis tilts his head with a dubious brow. “What on earth? Why would you want that?” he laughs. “Go and ask Ed. He’s got an actual tattoo gun.”

Harry shakes his head determinedly. “Don’t want to ask Ed. Because I’ve decided. I want you to. Now surprise me,” he says, covering his eyes with his free hand.

It’s impossible for Harry to be any cuter. Lord. Louis laughs, surprised. “Alright,” he sighs after much nagging. “But I warn you. I’m a terrible artist.”

Harry beams at him, barely blinking. “I don’t believe you’re bad at anything,” he says, sounding so earnest Louis feels a blush creep up his neck.

Louis scoffs. “Oh, my god. You really are too much for my ego.” Louis glances down, face heating up feverishly. He’s so flustered by Harry’s attention, stomach fluttering ceaselessly.

“Not ego. Self-esteem,” Harry corrects, tone serious.

Louis meets his eyes and Harry’s staring back at him intently. Louis clears his throat. “Um, so who’s got a pen I can borrow? Anyone have a Sharpie handy?”

Niall, who Louis had momentarily forgotten was even responsible for this, snaps out of his obvious preoccupation with Harry and Louis and disappears, coming back armed with a pen in lightning speed. "Here you go, mate. Have at him."

Louis levels Niall with a crease of his brows. Niall grins.

But he has no idea what to draw. Louis wants to give this thought, but Harry's standing here, uncovering his eyes and now blinking down at him all starry-eyed and looking so bloody hot, Louis feels light-headed. There's bursts of heat fizzing underneath his skin, spreading all the way to his fingertips as he gently rests the heel of his palm against the tepid skin of Harry's forearm, his thumb skirting across Harry’s pulse at his wrist bone.

So he draws the first thing that comes to his mind.

A bumblebee. 

With a thumbs up signal.

Harry's concentrated brows study Louis' every brush of the pen. He leans in closer, eyes on Louis' face. Louis tries not to think about how hard Harry’s staring at him while he makes the finishing touches. Harry glances back down at his arm and releases a honking laugh that almost jolts Louis enough to smudge his work.

"A bee?" Harry finds Louis’ eyes, delighted.

Louis nods, proud. He puts the cap back on the Sharpie and watches Harry grin down at his arm like an overexcited kid. "I will never wash this spot again.”

Louis shakes his head fondly. "You’re happy with my sad attempt at a doodle, then?"

"Buzzin'," Harry beams, thinking himself very clever. “Thank you, Loubee.”

Louis rolls his eyes, biting his cheek because he is so endeared he might shatter into pieces. “You’re so cheesy. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Harry laughs, tracing around the bee on his arm. “I think you like it.”

“I think I might, unfortunately.” Louis smiles, catching Harry’s buoyant gaze as he’s passed another beer by Niall, who wiggles his eyebrows at Louis.

Fetching himself a vodka based drink, Louis has to hide his smirk when Niall seems to be doing the same to Harry, sniggering when Harry lightly smacks him on the shoulder, almost glaring.

They spend the next hour or so joking and giggling about ridiculous things, but are continuously interrupted as the two of them are intermittently greeted by their friends, randomly patted on the back for their outfits by drunken passerby, exchanging more smirks and coy smiles and light giggles as they somehow get through at least three more beers within another hour after that, barely responding to Liam’s shrieking protests of people’s clumsiness in the proximity of his mum’s pricey crystal cabinets.

Until, finally, they’re left alone.

“So—” they both say at the same time.

They grin at each other, ‘Into The Groove’ by Madonna suddenly bursting out of the speakers.

“ _And you can dance. For inspiration_ ,” Harry mouths along. “ _Come on. I’m waiting_.” He actually puts his hands on his hips, animatedly wiggling his eyebrows at Louis.

“You’re so embarrassing,” Louis snorts.

Harry does a little shake of his hips, shimmying his lovely, pert bum and poking his bent arms out. He looks like a dope and Louis’ face aches from smiling so hard, cheeks searing from the alcohol, or Harry, or both.

“I take it back. You’re not cool in the slightest.”

Harry licks his lips, his pleased expression softening. His emerald eyes quite literally sparkle as someone dims the lights a bit more, the kitchen’s spotlights creating supernovas inside them. Harry’s standing in the doorway, rainbow infused by the lights. The sight almost takes his breath away as Louis takes a shuddering inhale, slowly breathing out, his eyes fixated on Harry’s.

Harry then puts his empty bottle down on the already crowded worktop, and Louis swallows visibly as Harry moves closer with heavy-lidded eyes.

He stops just in front of where Louis stands, the tips of their shoes touching. Harry’s lips are an undeniable shade of deep scarlet and Louis is mesmerised by them, his fingertips itching to press into the plushness, wanting to know if they feel as soft as they look. Or better yet, what they'd taste like.

Harry’s face inches closer, tentatively, as though he’s waiting for an indication from Louis to allow him into his space until their mouths are meeting.

Louis would really like for their mouths to finally be acquainted.

Harry’s eyes flutter shut as his lips barely brush over Louis’, his nose softly buried into his cheek. Louis exhales as he lets his open mouth and hover over Harry’s for a moment, drunk and dizzy on Harry’s existence, about to close the distance between them when Harry puts a hand on his chest.

“Wait,” Harry says, fingers curling in the material of Louis’ polo shirt.

“Yeah?” Louis breathes, arousal already clouding his head.

“Um, this can’t—" His voice is hesitant, uneasy. "I’m not looking to date anyone right now,” he blurts out quickly. “But it’s fine if you’re not cool with that! I know it’s a bit... I don’t usually do things like this.”

Louis blinks. "Um? What?" he gets out, and almost bursts out laughing. Where did that come from? Louis isn’t looking for that either. Has he been giving off the impression he's looking for a boyfriend? He just wants an attractive distraction, that's all, and Harry’s nice. He likes Harry. They have fun together and he’s sweet, but relationship? Jesus. No. Louis’ not going there.

“Bloody hell, Curly. Do I have a sign stuck to my forehead saying ‘Marry Me’ or what?” he laughs.

Harry looks slightly uncomfortable, briefly closing his eyes. “No,” he shakes his head, mouth twisting. Louis frowns. “I’m sorry if that sounded weird. I just—I don’t date. Not right now. It’s just a rule of mine at the moment. For... um, reasons.”

“Harry,” Louis chuckles airily. “We haven’t done anything yet, mate?”

“I know, but.” Harry flushes. “I just didn’t want to lead you on or anything.”

He finds Louis’ gaze and stares back at him with a serious brow, trepidation dotting the outline of his blown pupils, fidgeting as though he’s bracing himself for Louis asking more questions.

Well. As long as they’re both on the same page, they can have fun, right? Harry obviously has a lot on his mind, and he’s not forgotten about Niall’s word of warning about going on easy on Harry, or much like Louis, his sleeping problems.

A harmless distraction is what they could both use.

“Okay,” Louis shrugs easily. “Well, you’re not so... it’s fine,” he insists, smiling easily. “Because I'm not looking for that either, okay? I'm really not. But, I mean... hook ups? Are those game?”

Harry’s quiet a moment before he answers. “Not usually, no.”

"But you want to with me?" Louis asks, voice on the edge of teasing.

Harry's eyes are downcast but his lips start to quirk minutely. 

“Oh, okay, so I’m the exception, am I?” Louis smirks.

Harry’s lips curve further. “Perhaps," he murmurs.

"Look, what if we just see what happens, yeah? Have some fun? And whatever does, or doesn't happen, it's completely without any strings from me, okay? “I'm not exactly in the right shape for dating either. I'm just... looking for a distraction. Is that okay to say?” he smiles, squinting slightly.

“That’s okay,” Harry chuckles.

“A nice pair of lips to suck on."

Harry makes an amused sound. Louis smiles wider.

"That's it. And maybe, specifically, a pair of lovely, plush ones belonging to someone with a head of frankly fantastic curly brown hair," he grins.

Harry breaks into his own smile, scrunching his nose when he glances back up, meeting Louis' eyes, his stiff posture loosening. They stare for a beat, Harry's smile dwindling. "So... you're okay with it? That it can’t go anywhere?"

Louis nods easily. "We're on the same page. Promise." He holds out his pinkie to prove it, mind hazy and giddy from alcohol. Harry’s dimples appear in each cheek as he holds out his own, their pinkies intertwining. "We're just two people who like each other, have fun together, and who may or may not kiss and... stuff.” He grins, wild adrenaline pumping through to his fingertips.

Harry sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, lowering his flushed gaze to the floor.

“Just don't go falling in love with me, and it'll be fine," Louis smirks.

"I think I can safely say that's not going to happen," Harry grins, his voice a slow rumble, gently swaying on the spot. It’s cute. Harry’s cute. And he’s got cheeky bundles of attitude hidden away that Louis would really like to see more of.

"Charming. Sure about that?" Louis squints, folding his arms with a crinkled smile.

Harry's doesn’t say anything, his smile smoothing out as he studies Louis closely for a moment, face unreadable, and then he releases what's probably a relieved breath.

"Okay." Harry nods, his spindly fingers blindly reach for Louis’ smaller ones, his palms open and spread fingers caressing his. “We’ll just keep this casual. Easy?”

“Exactly. It'll be fun,” Louis says, letting Harry raise their loosely linked hands just above their waists, mouths not touching, but almost. “No seriousness. Just fun,” he smiles.

“Let’s go upstairs, then," Harry says lowly against his lips.

“Okay,” Louis breathes immediately.

Shit, it's gonna happen. Those lips he’s been dreaming about. He’s actually going to get to kiss them.

His skin feels tight, flaming under the other boy’s intense gaze so he tugs on one of their entangled hands and leads Harry through the sloshed, moving bodies and up the stairs.

His heart is pumping vigorously, palms sweating the longer he thinks about the fact his hand is currently connected with Harry’s, who’s following behind him, hovering closely and more or less pasting his warm front to Louis’ back as they climb the large, carpeted stairs of Liam’s parents’ house.

And he can already _feel_ how much Harry wants this, too.

Okay. Shit. So—Guest room. Louis needs to find a guest room, but it’s difficult to make his feet move properly when Harry’s breathing against the back of his neck hotly, the hand not holding onto his roaming at Louis’ side, every stroke of his fingers nearly eliciting a breathy moan from his lips.

His breathing is all over the place in anticipation and he almost trips over his own feet on the landing, Harry bursting into giggles at his eagerness to find a room that isn’t someone’s bedroom, opening and closing doors, stumbling around with Harry close behind him.

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, voiced laced with laughter, tugging his hand in the opposite direction and opening a door located at the end of the hall. "This one." Harry's chest is rising and falling with heavy breaths as he stumbles into it, hand firmly grasping Louis’.

Louis follows Harry into what seems to be a darkened spare room. There’s only a king-size bed and a bedside table with a lamp set atop it, and a slight draught in the room, despite the central heating being on.

He notices the window has been left ajar and Louis temporarily lets go of Harry’s hand to close it. When he turns around, Harry is leaning his back against the closed door, face and body highlighted in shadows by the moon filtering through the netted curtains, his hand reaching out to feel across the wall for the light switch.

Louis makes his way over to Harry with slow steps, whose eyes are firmly transfixed with his every move, his unsteady breaths the only sound in the bedroom, bar Louis’ creaky footsteps.

The lights come on, warm and amber tinted.

“Come over ‘ere,” Harry says, voice low and gravelly.

“That's what I'm doing,” Louis enunciates, making a point to stand still.

"No, you're not,” Harry whines.

Louis can’t control the grin on his face, light-headed and buoyant.

“Louis, you’re too far away from me," Harry whines again. "Closer," he beckons him over with a finger, smiling lazily, staring openly at him, the heat of his hungry gaze raking over him making Louis’ skin itchy with the need to be close to him, lust pumping through his veins.

He just—He needs to _touch_.

Louis crowds his space, arms bending at the elbows to rest either side of Harry over the door, caging him in. Harry nuzzles his neck, nosing upwards towards Louis' cheek, then bares his own, lolling his head to the side as Louis’ mouth tentatively brushes the spot beneath his ear, the cross earring still dangling from his earlobe. He hums, mouthing at his neck.

“You’re so... fuck, you’re so hot—” Louis starts, unable to finish any more praise because one of Harry’s hands is clutching at his waist possessively. Louis likes it, leans solidly into his touch, the firm grip sending tiny electric shocks and lush shivers through his body, hooked on the way Harry manages to stir these sparks beneath his skin, prickling at his cells all over.

“I brought this up,” Harry says suddenly, his breathing heavy as his wet lips drag across Louis’ cheek and jawline messily, his eyes closed.

He lifts up a small bottle of vodka Louis had no idea he was holding with the hand that was behind his back.

And takes a large swig, barely wincing.

“Jesus, Harry, you’re drinking that straight,” Louis says, mild alarm waking him up a bit.

Harry releases a loud bark of laughter, swaying on the spot. “Straight,” he mutters under his breath, chuckling, “Nah, I’m too gay for that.”

Okay, well he’s got his confirmation. But Louis finds himself studying the other boy for a moment, suddenly struck with a flash of concern, wondering whether maybe this isn’t a good idea right now after all. But his head is cloudy with alcohol, and his urges aren’t exactly dampening. Even so, should they wait until they're sober?

Any concerns he does have, though, quickly dissipate when Harry gives him a smug lopsided smile, dimple prominent, his knee brushing Louis’ leg.

Louis huffs out a laugh and removes the vodka bottle from Harry’s grip, taking a quick swig himself, shuddering sharply. He bends down to lean it against the neighbouring wall and settles back against Harry, his hands caressing Harry’s sides.

Harry presses into him, Louis’ lips brushing his chin. “Funnily enough, I gathered,” Louis murmurs into his skin, clasping the back of Harry’s head, fingers in his hair as he latches onto a spot just under his magnificently carved jawline, sharp and angular, trailing deep kisses along the pale column of his neck, biting at his pulse point. Harry’s breathing speeds up. "God, Harry. Your fucking jaw. Look at it.” Louis softly grasps his chin. “Look at that. Fuck. Was your mother a Greek goddess by any chance?"

Harry giggles in his hold, breathing hotly as he tips his head back against the door.

Louis' hand delves lower, pushing into the thickness of Harry’s inner thigh. The other boy’s breath hitches, leg jerking under his fingertips, his square front teeth sinking into Louis’ lip lusciously as Louis digs his fingers in harder, eyes crinkling in a smirk as he watches Harry’s eyes flutter closed.

“Louis—” Harry breathes.

“Yeah?”

Louis kisses up his neck until he reaches the corner of his plush, cherry bitten mouth, every quiet sound that Harry makes travelling straight to the straining hardness in his trousers. He starts to stroke over Harry’s jeaned length, cupping it with his palm, alternating between squeezing and lightly trailing the pads of his fingers along the shaft, eliciting a slew of moans from Harry's cherry bitten lips, brows pinched in pleasure, desperate and breathless.

And then suddenly Harry’s hands are grabbing his face and he’s pushing his lips firmly to his.

It’s like the earth shakes beneath Louis’ feet as he’s hit with the force of Harry’s unabashed need, struggling to catch his breath. (That or Louis’ legs have turned to mush and have forgotten how to cooperate with gravity.)

He grips onto Harry’s shoulders for support, the rough denim bunching up in his fists as Harry kisses him strenuously; his lips are searing, soft and unrelenting all at once, slotting seamlessly with Louis’. Like they fit. Meshing together so perfectly, it makes Louis feel frivolously filled with hysteria, kissing back just as hard, struck with the urge to laugh madly.

Because he’s kissing Harry.

And holy shit, it’s awesome.

The kiss is everything Louis hoped it would be—because it’s not like he hasn’t thought about kissing him an embarrassing amount for the last month or so. It's fiery and addicting, and Louis already wants more, more, more, gladly drowning beneath the plush, hot dominance of Harry’s mouth, the solid, deliberate press of Harry's hands, and the floral scent of Harry’s neck, mixed with heat, sweat and alcohol.

Louis melts into it, boneless.

Kissing someone has never, ever felt like this before. Kissing's barely felt like anything more than a faint sense of pleasant warmth. This is on another level, a completely different high that Louis isn't looking to come down from anytime soon.

Harry gasps into it, mouth invitingly open and wet, and he’s making these low, needy whimpers with every feverish slide and suck of Louis’ impatient lips. Or is that Louis making these noises? Jesus, Louis can barely tell anymore as they kiss each other deep and breathless, restless and greedy for the taste of Harry, who's pliant under his mouth. His lips are just so soft and his hands are dizzying, and Louis can only grip onto him tighter and try to keep his legs from collapsing under him.

“Ah, fuck,” Louis pants as he pulls off, Harry ribbing Louis' bottom lip between his teeth, trying to catch Louis' gaze.

Harry smirks with glossy eyes, lips puffy, lightly brushing Louis' nose when he brings their bodies closer still, his hand an anchoring presence on the small of Louis' back. Louis laughs deliriously, cheeks puffed out and eyes crinkling as he looks at Harry. 

"What?" Harry giggles madly.

Louis shrugs, gazing at the way Harry temporarily stops laughing to softly smile at him, hands tugging him close, giddily moving his head like a rag doll, before Louis bursts into giggles again.

“What’s so funny?” Harry demands, grinning.

“You are,” Louis lilts.

And then he dips back in again to capture Harry’s mouth with his.

Their breaths are soon coming even thicker and faster as they rub and rut their bodies together, hands roaming everywhere they can reach, making sure there isn’t an inch of space where they aren’t touching. Harry’s back is still flat against the door, gradually sinking down, their kisses growing more frantic and dirtier by the second.

“Harry,” Louis gets out, clutching onto Harry’s forearms where he’s cupping Louis’ face. “Can you, ah—”

It seems Harry knows exactly what Louis’ wants, because his hard crotch is instantly pushing forwards, meeting Louis’ equally as eager hips and grinding into him. Harry rolls his hips slowly, movements then quickly becoming more fervent, his breaths loud in Louis’ ear.

“God,” Harry groans into his neck. His big hands move lower to squeeze possessively at Louis’ bum and Louis almost growls as Harry paws firmly at his cheeks, his middle finger sliding between them over his trousers. “You’re so fucking—”

Louis whines, his pulse thudding in his throat as their tongues continue to glide against each other. They’re kissing so filthily, it’s obscene. Louis has another urge to laugh deliriously, but he’s cut off when Harry’s forehead drops to his shoulder, nuzzling at his polo.

“Can we— _Louis_. Bed,” Harry mumbles between another deep kiss. Softer. More careful. “The bed.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Louis nods up and down wildly when Harry’s hands land on his waist.

Harry pushes Louis backwards, never relenting up on his intense eye contact until the backs of Louis’ knees collide with the king-size mattress and Louis falls onto the bed with a bounce, light-headed and desperate to be attached back to Harry’s mouth.


	4. Four

 

Louis puffs a breath of air upwards towards his fringe, currently obscuring his perfect view of Harry and presses his lips together, waiting for Harry’s body to settle on top of his, his hands positioned above his head, gripping onto the firm pillow, chest heaving almost hilariously.

He feels completely blissed out, all from a heavy session of snogging Harry’s face off. Harry looks at him, lips smudged deliciously and bright red marks already materialising over his pale skin, eyes bursting of desire, much like Louis’, his collar and hair comically askew.

He looks utterly debauched.

A laugh mixed with a whinge slips past Louis’ lips. “Come on. Hurry up!”

He bucks his hips up, basically humping thin air at this point because his arse is an impatient, horny mess, a sheen of sweat damp across his forehead. He undoes his polo’s top buttons and watches Harry remove his denim jacket and pull off his shoes with great difficulty, clumsily bouncing around on one socked foot.

"Fuck!" Harry chuckles at himself airily, Louis cackling at him from his position on the bed, leaning back on his elbows.

Then Harry's bounding towards him, like the two extra seconds walking would have taken to get to the bed were too long. Louis bites back an elated smile, and then at last he’s got Harry’s lovely body on top of his, moulding his longer length to Louis’ shorter, albeit incredibly worked up one, unable to stop squirming around on the silky sheets. He can’t stay fucking still.

“You’re gorgeous. So fucking lovely,” Harry murmurs, mouthing hungrily across Louis’ jawline, seemingly rubbing his face over the faint stubble of his cheeks, his hips tentatively rocking against Louis’ and slowly driving him to lust induced madness while Harry increases the pressure, the friction so fucking good.

“Well, you’re just—” Louis gasps as Harry presses the heel of his palm down over his tented out trousers,“—terrible face-wise,” he says, a bit strangled. “Can’t—believe I’m letting you slobber all over me, to be honest,” he breathes, drowning underneath every insistent touch and the rhythmic caress of Harry’s hands over his hard length.

Hands that grip and pull at each other’s hair, their waists, their faces, feverish lips meeting wetly in another dirty kiss.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. Jesus Christ,” Harry moans against Louis’ lips, kissing him as deeply as he can manage, licking urgently into his mouth.

“Don’t speak too soon,” Louis quips, screwing his fists in Harry’s ruffled curls.

Harry lifts up on his elbows and smiles dopily down at him, chuckling airily, his eyes pooling with emerald soaked fondness. Louis tries to contain his beam, pulling his face down to kiss him again or else he really will fucking drown. He absently registers the techno retro beats from downstairs, echoing in Louis’ fuzzy head, thumping against the walls as their hips move together in time, tugging Harry’s bottom lip with his teeth.

And it's just too much and still not enough.

Louis shoves his thigh between Harry’s legs and slaps his hands atop his bum. Harry releases a shrill moan, his hips snapping faster, the warm weight of Harry making Louis beyond dizzy.

“Oh, god. Harry, this feels so, so good. But can you—just, um—” His brain cuts out on a moan as Harry grinds down into him purposefully, his cock straining uncomfortably inside his trousers, starting to leak precome.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers, deftly fingering Louis’ trousers open and hastily pulling the tight fabric down Louis’ thighs to just under his knees.

Harry shuffles down the bed and hooks his hand under one of Louis’ knees, attaching his mouth to the top of his inner thigh, sucking a hard kiss into the flesh, nipping at the skin, apparently intending to leave a massive bruise.

Louis is very okay with that. He hisses when Harry’s teeth scrape against his skin more sharply, tipping his head back on the pillow, arching his neck as his legs open as much as his restricting trousers will allow him to. His thighs begin to tremble in the draughty room, even though the rest of him is burning up, itchy and skin sweaty and swarming with want.

Harry’s hand grips onto his other thigh, holding it still as he continues to suck glorious kisses into the sensitive skin, scrambling to yank his trousers down for better access, pulling at them until they pass his calves. He’s going to be left with thighs that look like they’ve been mauled raw and Louis couldn’t be happier with the fact. He half wishes it was summer again, merely so he could show them off in a short, tight pair of trunks by a pool.

It’s not much longer before Harry’s lifting off and kissing him on the mouth again, lingering there until he’s practically sucking the breath from Louis’ lungs, taking his sanity with him. They haven’t even done much more than kiss and grind and Louis is already a clammy, writhing wreck under Harry’s mouth.

Louis clutches at Harry’s soft, narrow hips in an effort to anchor himself, or else he might literally float away into the heavens and he’d really like to stay here and kiss Harry a while longer, thanks. Because kissing Harry is like nothing else. He could quite happily lie here with him and kiss him senseless for hours and hours, until their lips are sore and chapped and their jaws ache.

“Louis,” Harry says, voice deliciously husky, those plush lips smacking wetly with his as he takes away his mouth, Louis following him immediately like the clingy, needy loser he is right now. “Can I give you a blow job?”

“Shit,” Louis breathes, pushing his already sweaty hair back. His cinnamon swirl is effectively ruined. “Fuck, yeah. Yes. Please. Go for it. Whenever you’re ready,” he rambles. “But preferably right now.”

A breathy, deep chuckle slips from Harry’s lips and then Louis can feel his breath ghosting over the fabric of his boxers, his cock twitching in keen interest.

“Thanks. It would be my pleasure,” Harry murmurs happily as he pulls Louis’ trousers down to his ankles, raking his hands up and down Louis’ legs.

“No, no. Thank you. The pleasure’s all mine,” Louis quips, despite the way Harry’s fingers are now squeezing at his shaft, making it increasingly hard to breathe correctly, fisting the sheets.

Harry giggles. “Nah, it’s mine,” he says, removing his white plimsolls from his bare feet.

“What you doing?” Louis lifts his head up, arching a curious brow. “Have you got a foot kink or something?”

“No, I don’t,” Harry pouts. “Feet in general are pretty gross, but  _your_  feet are really nice.”

Louis bursts out laughing. “Okay, well, thank you for the compliment on my hooves, I guess.”

“They’re not hooves!” Harry laughs, almost offended. “They’re so dainty. Petite, little tootsies.”

Louis laughs harder. “Oh, my god.” He throws his back, hands in his hair. “This is... What the hell are we talking about?”

“How nice your feet are,” Harry beams. His hands wrap around Louis’ ankles. Louis’ legs squirm as he bends them at the knees. “Has anyone ever told you you’ve got really pretty ankles, too?” he says rasps, thumbs smoothing over the bone, tracing the dip on the inside. 

“Um,” Louis grins, flustered. “I don’t think they have, to be fair.”

“Well, I’m telling you. You do.” Harry pauses, thumb pressing into his right ankle. "Hey, you've got a tattoo here. A triangle?" Harry glances up, meeting his eyes curiously.

"Yeah," Louis nods.

"What's it mean?"

Louis' lips quirk. "That I'm proud of who I am," he says simply. 

Harry stares seriously at Louis for a moment, then he kisses the spot chastely.

"It's pretty cool," Harry says a little shyly. Louis smiles.

Then he's rising up on his knees and bends down again, burying his face in the jut of Louis' hipbone, placing another soft kiss there. He pushes his shirt aside as he starts to suck deep kisses into Louis’ belly, before moving on to nuzzle at Louis’ clothed cock, mouthing over the rapidly dampening fabric, beads of precome seeping through at the tip.

He gasps when Harry’s tongue circles it, digging into his slit through the thin fabric of his boxers, his hands caressing over Louis’ stomach and sides. They slip under his shirt that he rucks up to Louis’ sternum, thumbs flicking over Louis’ nipples. Louis hisses but then Harry’s roaming down his chest and pressing into the softness under his belly button. Harry briefly lifts up to dip his tongue inside it, Louis' tummy muscles jumping, before returning to his cock’s head.

Louis bites his lip, inhaling harshly though his nose.

The sensation is maddening as Harry’s mouth starts to move down along his shaft, making these quiet mewling sounds that are doing nothing to help Louis not come in five seconds flat.

Louis moans. “Ah—Harry—”

Harry hums against his cock, the vibration choking out another gasp from Louis’ throat. Louis pushes his feet onto Harry’s shoulders, digging his heel into the dip of his back.

“Are you gonna suck me any time soon, or—ah!—do I have to do it myself?”

He hears Harry giggle again, deep and rumbling, and then he’s leaning up and crawling up his body, mouthing at his neck, teeth scraping against the skin as he continues to laugh.

“Sorry, baby. I’ll get right on it.”

A broad, disorientating smile sweeps across Louis’ face at the name. “I should fucking well hope so. Get a move on, curly boy.” He loosens his grip on the sheets either side of him, arms wrapping around Harry’s back instead, palms smoothing over his shoulder blades in languid movements. “I’m losing the will to live.”

Harry scoffs. “Your cock here is telling me a different story,” he mumbles, his fingers pushing under the elastic band of his boxers, unceremoniously freeing his cock and shoving them right down his thighs.

“Oh, my god,” Louis gasps, really fucking dizzy now as the air comes into contact with his fully hard cock. It’s resting against his stomach and absolutely dripping precome. Harry’s correct.

“You’re so wet,” Harry breathes, staring at the head in awe, giving the head a few experimental licks, and then wraps his lips around it and sucks heartily. It doesn’t take long before the heat of Harry’s huge mouth encompasses Louis in one swift motion, steadily swallowing him down until he hits the back of Harry’s throat.

“Fuck,” Louis moans, dipping his chin to watch Harry’s head bob steadily up and down, sucking him with so much enthusiasm you’d think he was being graded on his blowing skills.

And as it goes, Harry is fucking incredible at it. He swirls his tongue over the slit of the head on every upstroke, holding the base and giving it a firm squeeze.

Louis tightens his hands in the sheets, hurdling closer to release as Harry takes him down again and again, the heat of his mouth just so good.

“A-star, A-star!” Louis shouts deliriously, past caring what he sounds like.

Harry pops off abruptly, tears in his eyes as he practically guffaws, nose scrunching up adorably, which Louis would be much more appreciative of if he wasn’t so near to bursting and pulsing down his throat. “Did you just grade me?”

“Harry,” Louis grits. “Fucking get back down there!” He shoots him a glare, breathing heavily, wiping at his damp forehead.

Harry just grins, spit dribbling down his chin, his plump lips a fucking obscene shade of red. Louis tips his head back as Harry closes his mouth back around him, hollowing his cheeks once more and the hand that’s not clasping his hip squeezes back at the base, pumping the shaft with a loose fist that meets his lips, his tongue dipping vigorously into the slit on every upstroke of his hand meeting his mouth.

The bed starts to creak slightly, sheets rustling as Harry begins to grind his hips down into the mattress, both of his thumbs digging into Louis’ hipbones, bruising. 

Louis moans unabashedly, hands burying in Harry’s hair as the other boy moans with him, the desperate sounds reverberating over his straining cock.

And it’s  _too much_. He hastily tugs sharply on a lengthy curl in warning, and again, but Harry stays exactly where he is, even despite Louis’ louder volume.

“ _Harry.”_

His orgasm hits him in solid waves, a shrill whine escaping his lips as he arches his back, spurting into Harry’s mouth until he feels cool air hit him, jerking through the aftershocks as Harry pumps him through it, both of them panting hard.

Then Harry tucks him back into his boxers, pecking a kiss to Louis’ stomach and gently tugs his shirt back down.

Louis gazes up at him as Harry wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, collapsing onto the bed with a depleted exhale on Louis’ right, sharing the pillow. “You’re so noisy,” Harry grins, eyelids droopy. He looks so fucked out. Louis imagines he looks much the same, if not worse.

“So are you,” Louis protests, pinching his side, hearing Harry’s breathless giggle. “Bloody obscene.” He leans into the warm press of Harry’s jeaned thigh against his.

"Excuse me. Your moans are porno worthy," Harry teases, poking his stomach.

Louis laughs, tipping his head back.

"Woo!" He stares at the ceiling, curling inwards as Harry leans over him, looking at him for a moment and peppers short kisses over the side of his flushed, hot cheek. He glances down and sees the wet patch over Harry’s blue jeans. “So I’d ask if you want me to sort you out next, but it seems that time has already passed,” Louis smirks, eyes closing as he breathes out.

The younger boy tugs his shirt down. “I couldn’t help it. You’re too fucking hot for me to handle." Harry flattens himself against Louis’ side, thumb stroking over Louis’ mouth. "Can't believe you graded me," he sniggers after a moment, attaching his mouth to Louis’ neck and sucking a bruise.

"Oi, be honoured!” Louis squirms. “I gave you the highest mark. Don't make fun of me!" Louis smacks him and Harry squawks, pretending to roll away, face etched in a delighted beam.

Louis grips his waist and pulls him back, holding his breath when Harry briefly connects his hooded, contented eyes with his and then drops his head to Louis’ chest.

“You’ll owe me next time,” Harry says fuzzily into his shirt, but Louis can hear the smile in his voice, and an excitable warmth spreads through his chest at the words  _next time_.

Maybe this term is going to be much more fun than he thought.

**

They make their way back downstairs about fifteen minutes later, after giggling with hysteria from their sex-hazy highs, nudging each other's chests with their faces like bloody bear cubs, until they finally decided to move.

Both of them are now looking far worse for wear than they were an hour ago, their hair sticking out wildly, mouths stained crimson and necks littered in love bites.

Louis’ felt happier than he has he ages, a bounce in his step and a flare to his demeanour as he gets to the landing.

“Who are you? Tigger?” he hears Harry say behind him, a grin in his lazy voice, one hand clasping Louis' shoulder and his other hovering at his hip. Louis gravitates towards it, unable to stop his fingertips gingerly touching his, the press of his warmth seeping through his shirt.

Harry makes the last step and heavily leans on Louis as he turns in his hold, beaming up at him. Louis grins into Harry’s chin, playfully nipping at his sharp jawline and Harry’s hands grip his hips, idly swaying his tipsy and upbeat self, eyes gazing down at him, a Cyndi Lauper track fading out.

“Whoever you want me to be,” Louis murmurs, pretending to smoke a cigarette.

Harry guffaws, screwing his eyes shut as he holds onto Louis’ shoulders. “You are not Ryan Atwood, please!”

“I am!” Louis protests, grinning.

“No way,” Harry shakes his head. “You’re Louis Tomlinson. Stick to that. It’s more than cool enough.”

“Oooh, cool am I?” Louis flips his hair ridiculously, pulling a brooding face.

“The coolest,” Harry beams, eyelids heavy, swooning with his hand thrown over his forehead.

“Idiot,” Louis says fondly.

Harry squawks, swatting at his chest. “You are.”

“I think you’re a bit dick drunk, babe,” Louis comments, bursting into airy, manic giggles and covering his mouth as Harry throws his head back, releasing a honking laugh that makes Louis’ eyes bulge and giggle even more. “What was that noise?!”

“Leave me alone,” Harry whines. “I’m dick drunk.”

Louis laughs as they make their way through the crowded hallway, re-joining the party and keeping hold of each other’s hands. Louis bites down a grin, feeling like he’s floating, taking a right back to the kitchen when Harry's suddenly grabbing for his wrist, squeezing it almost too tightly and then abruptly, he lets it go.

“I’m, um, I’m just gonna grab us some more drinks,” Harry says hurriedly, walking backwards to head off without him, obsessively fussing over his popped collar, not looking at Louis, eyes skittish. His tone is off.

Louis walks toward him, surprised.

Harry’s pupils are still blown, his cheeks flushed bright pink but Harry definitely does not appear as lively anymore. Louis watches with confusion as Harry's brows crease, scanning the heads of the people surrounding them nervously. Scared, even?

Louis frowns, unsettled. 

“Hey,” Louis says gently, fingers hooking on Harry’s denim sleeve, alarmed by the way Harry’s hand is now trembling. “Harry? Haz?” he says, heart racing. “You okay there?”

Harry seems to remember where he is, snapping his eyes away from the crowd, but when his wide, unblinking gaze meets Louis’, the green in them is murky, his bottom lip beginning to tremble.

The rest of him appears to be shaking, too. Almost violently, his feet unsteadily tangling together.

“Shit, Harry. What it is?” Louis asks then, more than worried now. “What’s the matter?” he says, voice soft but strained, reaching out to hold delicately onto his elbows.

“I—I don’t—” Harry takes a shuddery breath, clearly panicked, eyes flitting around almost like he’s being cornered. He squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing, and Louis' just about to take him outside for some air and see if he can get Harry to talk about what’s going on, when someone drags him away, bodily turning him around to face them.

Louis almost barks at them, face etched in a scowl, until he sees it’s Niall.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Niall starts, offence in his tone but it’s quickly replaced with a dawning look of realisation as he takes in Louis’ dishevelled form. Oh, great. This is all Louis needs. Niall crouches down in laughter. “Jesus, somebody’s had a good time."

Louis shoots him a glare.

“It’s not like that—” He distractedly turns around to tug Harry somewhere to talk. But Harry’s not there.

Harry’s not anywhere.

Louis' heart starts to pound.

“Oh, so the good time was with Harry!” Niall laughs briefly, his expression then suddenly sobering up. “Wait,” he pauses. “It was with Harry?”

“Yes,” Louis snaps, half-wondering why Niall seems so surprised when he was the one pushing them together, but also mostly wondering where the fuck Harry’s got to. The state he was in did not bode well, and Louis needs to find him.

“Niall, I think Harry's having some kind of panic attack?"

“Oh, no.” Niall sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair, looking just as worried as Louis now and it makes something unpleasant stick inside him, his temples throbbing. “Let’s just find him. Before someone else does.”

“Well, Christ, that sounds ominous, Niall,” Louis almost screeches, brows pulled into a tight line, eyes wide.

The lights dim right down low as a Blondie record thumps against the walls, but that useless observation is quickly shoved out of his hazy mind when he spots a denim jacket and a brown head of hair leave out the front door.

“Harry?” he calls, frowning, heart beating violently inside his ribcage. “Harry!”

The front door closes and laughter booms around him, the music somehow even louder than before. Louis fights his way through the ridiculously dressed, drunken student bodies and leaves the house in search of the other boy, slamming the door behind him.

Louis spots Harry walking half-way down the road, hands in his pockets and striding along with purpose, shoulders hunched and head bowed.

“Harry!” he calls, his voice frantic because what if Harry doesn't stop? What if he keeps on walking while in this state? He could end up anywhere and Louis' chest is already under immense strain with all this worry.

The younger boy stops in his tracks and slowly turns to face Louis, who’s now legging it to get to him, puffing from his sprint.

“Harry—shit,” he pants, bending over to place his hands on his knees, wincing as he heaves to get his breath back. He needs a few more trips to the gym. “You alright? No, of course you're not," he shakes his head. "What’s wrong?” He stands back up, heart hammering painfully, a little unsteady on his feet.

Harry merely stands there looking so small and uneasy, on the verge of tears. His long chest expands rapidly, his breathing sounding laboured and shallow, and he's sweating, forehead shiny, and Louis feels awful.

He just wants to fix whatever’s made Harry feel like this. He has no idea what to think. Harry was so giddy and relaxed before. He doesn’t understand what happened between then and making their way back downstairs?

What could have possibly happened in seconds?

He’s gone from floating and giggling and buoyant to panicked, anxious and frightened in moments.

“Okay,” Louis starts gently. “Harry? Do you think you can tell me what’s happened?” he smiles, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. "But if you can't, it doesn’t matter."

Harry suddenly crouches down, wobbly and hides his face in his hand, struggling to catch his breath.

Louis immediately gets down to his level. "Harry? Hey. Just try and take some breaths for me, yeah? Deep breaths? Okay?”

Harry shudders through a gasp, before shaking his head. He takes his hands away and tips his head back, tears brimming in his eyes, exhaling unevenly. After a few minutes of Louis lightly holding onto Harry's forearms as Harry's breathing gets better, the younger boy unceremoniously stands up. Louis instantly does the same, eyes wide and pulse stuck in his throat.

Taking a tentative step forward, Harry bites down hard on his lip, wringing his hands out at his sides fitfully, compulsively. His breathing is still jagged and quick.

After another minute or two, Louis rubbing soothing motions into his back, Harry breathes out again. He clears his throat but it's still hoarse.

“I—had to—I had to get out. I saw him _there_ , in the kitchen and I just—“ Harry stutters. “Everything was—it was too much,” he breathes, voice breaking as he rakes his hands obsessively through his hair, eyes darting around Louis. “I can’t go back in there. Please don’t ask me why,” he pleads, green eyes desperately imploring and glazed over.

“Hey, hey. Okay,” Louis says softly, gently taking Harry’s hands in his and loosely holding his wrists, leaving room for him to wriggle out of Louis’ hold if he wants to. But Harry lets him, studying Louis closely with glassy, blown eyes, lips still so red and hair ruffled. "We don't have to go back in there, I promise," he soothes, thumbs caressing the backs of Harry's cold, trembling hands. "We'll stay right here. It's fine."

Harry swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His love bites are clearly visible, red fresh bruises, and he looks so _young_ , vulnerable, all dressed up in his denim jacket and pink Converse with his collar popped.

And he's looking at Louis like he's the one who might be able to help him, to make it better, even if it's only a fraction better.

“Let’s take some more big, deep breaths, yeah?” Louis suggests, demonstrating for Harry to take in a deep inhale and breathing slowly out, bringing Harry's hands closer, cradling them to his chest over his heartbeat.

His distressed gaze stays fastened to Louis, even though there’s the very likely possibility he might retreat at any second, as trepidation lines his dark irises, barely any green left in them anymore. Harry’s movements are jittery as he takes in another deep, shaky breath, mouth formed into a small ‘o’ shape.

His feet press on the soles of his Converse and lift up slightly as he exhales, body shuddering, eyes falling shut as Louis just holds onto him, Harry letting him.

They repeat the breaths a few more times before Harry's fingers awkwardly wrap around Louis', the pads reaching to touch the edge of his thumbs.

“There,” Louis whispers. “Much better, right?” he soothes, finding the younger boy’s gaze. He seems to have calmed down slightly and Harry nods, pursing his lips before exhaling another drawn out breath as he tips his head back a bit. "Okay?"

Harry takes a small step closer, delicate and unsure. Louis feels fiercely protective of him all of a sudden. He’s known him barely a month or so and yet here he is, clasping this other boy’s freezing hands, and here’s Harry, gazing down at Louis like he has all the answers.

There’s a faint brush of Harry’s thumb flitting over Louis’ pulse point at his wrist.

He still doesn’t let go.

“I’m—um—sorry I ran out like that without saying anything,” Harry say suddenly, teeth chattering violently from the cold now. Louis grips onto his hands all the tighter, attempting to warm them up, kneading at his palms and rubbing them between his. Harry vaguely registers the action. “I just had to—” he trails off.

“It’s okay. You needed to get out of there, I know. You don't have to say anything else," Louis assures him. 

Harry nods, blinking rapidly, pressing his bitten lips together.

God. Louis’ heart is jack-rabbiting with concern, tummy swooping terribly with worry and alarm.

Harry just looks so distressed. And _tired._

“Shall we go home? Let’s get out of here, yeah?” Louis suggests, swaying their hands because he doesn’t know what else to do, giving them constant, what he hopes, are comforting squeezes. "Have a nice cup of tea and snuggle into bed?"

Harry glances down at their entwined fingers, and exhales unsteadily once more, before settling a much calmer, quieter gaze back on Louis.

“Yeah, okay,” he breathes.

Louis leads the way as they walk hand in hand down the road, past the amber streetlamps and the picturesque , gated houses along the suburban street, the hidden flowerbeds and the lights gleaming in the dark, as the thump of the music fades into the distance. Louis grips Harry’s hand all the tighter, focused only on getting him home and tucked into bed.

**

Harry’s quiet when they get back to halls, which Louis expects. The other boy sits down at the kitchen table, waiting patiently as Louis gets to making them some hot tea. It’s quiet, anyway, because everyone is still at the party so it’s just the two of them.

He turns around, glancing over his shoulder at Harry and his heart starts to thud jumpily when Harry slouches onto the table, using his arms as a cushion, resting his mussed head of curls atop his denim clad sleeves. His mouth is slumped miserably and his eyelids are drowsily fluttering, when his eyes aren’t staring sightlessly ahead, unfocused.

“You okay there, Curly?” Louis asks quietly.

Harry’s eyes immediately flit to where Louis stands by the kettle and he hums. “M’ okay.” A small smile makes its way onto his shiny red lips. “Just wondering if my tea is going to made sometime this century.”

“You cheeky shit,” Louis mutters back.

So he’s still got his sense of humour at the moment, but obviously that’s not going to ease his fretting much. He knows there’s something going on with him, separate from his weird sleeping patterns and tendency to sleepwalk. Did Niall mention something about problems with his family? Maybe that’s it. Maybe he doesn’t even like art and he’s being pressured to be someone he’s not?

There’s a reason he seems distracted a lot. Something’s wrong. Something that’s taking up space in Harry’s lovely brain. Louis’ noticed it when his smiles seem unnatural and don’t reach his eyes, seen the bags and dark circles on the delicate skin underneath them, the way he gets so quiet and closed off, gaze aimed far away.

It gnaws at Louis, persistent and he needs to know. What did he see tonight that made him panic so badly?

Or  _whom._

“How you feeling? Do you... want to talk about anything?” Louis starts slowly, as he pours some milk into their brewed tea.

Harry’s eyes widen, round and pleading, about to start at that but, “Hey, it’s okay.” Louis holds up a hand and taking a seat opposite him, hands close to his but not touching. “I know you don’t want me to ask, and I promise I won't go on about it. But, if it was anything about tonight, like... if what we did made you feel uncomfortable in any way—”

“No,” Harry insists, ardently, shaking his head. “No, it wasn’t that, Louis. It’s wasn’t us, I promise.” He pauses, dropping his gaze to the table. “I wanted tonight to happen. I had a really great time with you. Up until, you know...”

He glances back up, meeting Louis’ own gaze softly, fondly.

“Oh. Okay, um.” Louis rakes a hand through his fringe, cheeks heating up under Harry’s soft eyes. “That’s... good. Cool,” Louis tries to chuckle.

Harry’s mouth quirks minutely, but then it slumps once more. He exhales heavily, bringing his hands together atop the table, worrying his bottom lip again. He rubs at his face. “I panicked because I saw—“ Harry suddenly pulls back, dread twisting his face again. “Can we talk about something else, please?” he asks, face etched in a deep frown.

Shit, leave the talking alone, Louis.

“Yeah course we can. Hey, Harry, I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about this. I’m just worried, like. That’s all. You gave me a scare,” he says, nudging his knuckles with his.

Harry’s red-rimmed eyes register the contact and gingerly seek out his. “I know. I’m... Um. I’m sorry. I’m all over the place,” he says faintly, features on the precipice of crumpling. “I know I’m being vague and not making any sense.”

Louis’ heart clenches. “Don’t be sorry. There’s nothing to apologise for. We’ll just sit here for a bit, yeah?”

Harry rests his chin on his palms, nodding into them. Louis retrieves their mugs and slides Harry’s forwards, pushing it in front of him on the table.

“Thanks,” Harry murmurs, holding it between his big paws and stares down into it, the steam radiating off the tea’s surface.

“Um, if you wanted... you can stay with me tonight?” Louis asks. God, it sounds shameless. But it’s not  _that_. He just wants Harry to feel as safe and comfortable as possible, and maybe he likes sleeping in Louis’ bed, if his unconsciousness so often wants to climb into it?

“What do you mean, like. With you?” Harry says, unsure. “Sleep in your room?”

“Yeah,” Louis says easily. “Everyone needs cuddles when they’re not feeling great, right?” he smiles.

Harry licks his lip slowly, brows furrowing slightly as he holds onto his mug.

“But it was just a suggestion, it was silly. Forget I said anything—” he dismisses ruefully, suddenly regretting asking because what is he even doing—

“No, I—yeah,“ Harry’s mouth slowly upturns into a smile. Oh, thank god for that. He nods. “Okay, I’d like that.”

**

The room is a little cold, since the top window was accidentally left ajar by Louis all evening.

Their half-empty cups of tea cool as they sit on Louis’ desk, the dimly lit room illuminated by the fairy lights glinting gold, their breaths hushed and composed as they lie facing each other on their sides, tucked into Louis’ bed.

Harry’s back is shuffled to the wall, Louis enveloping him with his limbs, the covers pulled over their shoulders and up to their necks, their socked feet entangling.

Louis gently brushes his ankle over Harry’s shin, feeling Harry’s bent legs shift closer in response, moulding the shape of his body to Louis’ with hooded eyes. It's comfortable and soothing and Louis tries not to dwell on the way their bodies seem to fit together so seamlessly. 

Warmth spreads through Louis’ limbs to the tips of his cold toes as Harry openly gazes at him, peaceful and unperturbed, his lovely hands tucked beneath his cheek on the pillow, hair fluffy and untamed, the half a ton of hairspray he used has long since passed its use.

Louis can just see the tip of the bee he drew on the back of Harry's left forearm from earlier in the night. Harry follows his eyeline, and his own eyes fall upon the little bee sketch on his pale skin. Louis softly drags a finger over the dried ink, feeling Harry's gaze boring into him while he lightly traces around the black outline.

He takes his hand back, mirroring Harry and tucking his hands under his face atop his pillow.

They stare quietly at one another in comfortable silence, eyelids beginning to droop.

Then Harry starts to ruffle the sheets with his restless legs, their knees bumping, and Harry gingerly removes his hand from underneath his cheek, carefully using it to bring their faces closer together.

Louis stays perfectly still, aware of every valve in his body soaking up Harry's warmth, his scent, as the other boy rests his palm over Louis’ hot skin, the pad of his thumb stroking slowly over his cheekbone.

It’s all so intimate, familiar, _soft_.

Louis remains quiet, not wanting to disturb the fragility of the moment, even when Harry moves his left hand and buries it within Louis’ hair, soothingly threading the tresses between his fingers.

Everything feels different. Something changed tonight, and not just the obvious.

It feels as though this is something that they always do, like they've done this a hundred times before. Like it's custom. Like this is how they exist.

He’s not sure how he’s supposed to feel about that, a twinge of uncertainty in his chest.

He wonders if Harry feels the same. But perhaps this is merely Harry trusting Louis. He’s trusting him enough to see him this open, this vulnerable, because he already has. Harry experienced something distressing tonight, and Louis saw it all.

Maybe this is Harry letting him in.

"Is this okay?" Harry murmurs now, words syrupy and slow, fingers stilling in Louis' hair. "Is it weird?"

"No... no, it's not weird," Louis murmurs back, heart racing despite the heaviness of his body sagging into the mattress. "It feels nice, actually."

"You're nice," Harry whispers when Louis' eyes meet his.

Louis smiles lazily. "Only  _nice_?"

Harry's thumb brushes across the papery skin beneath his eye, expression thoughtful.

"' _Nice'_ is a severely underrated quality," Harry rumbles. Louis watches his throat bob on a thick swallow. "It's not as common as you think." Louis hums as Harry continues to sweep his fingers languidly through his hair, carding through his fringe, the sensation prompting Louis’ eyes to flicker shut. “Same goes for trust,” he whispers.

Louis’ almost drifting off when he senses Harry removing his hand, stirring when the other boy lightly grazes his nose with his, and then he feels it.

A balmy kiss is pushed delicately to Louis’ lips.

Louis blinks his fuzzy eyes open, surprised. “Hey,” he mumbles. “You okay?” he wonders in a whisper.

Harry nods minutely, eyes fixed on his mouth.

“Are you sure?” Louis rasps, voice hoarse from disuse and tiredness. He blinks his eyes a few times, stretching his legs under the covers. “We can talk under here, you know.” He lifts up the duvet, pulling it up further up to cover their heads. Harry’s drowsy face quirks. “No one will disturb us, I promise. It’s just us,” he continues to whisper. “We’ll hibernate here in this bed, and we won’t leave until you’re ready to return to that ghastly world and make it better than ever before. Not a problem. And I’ve got a tin of biscuits under my bed. So that’s our food supply right there. Sorted.” He raises his eyebrows, smile lazy. “We’ll stay under here for as long as you want.” he promises, feeling giddy and silly. “Only us.”

Harry smiles sleepily, chuckling with a soft, childlike rumble in the back of his throat, hands tucked to his chest, just under his chin. Louis briefly, absurdly, thinks about keeping that sound in a bottle. But he’s tired. He’s full of all sorts of silly ideas when he’s sleep deprived.

“What about water? Hydration is very important, Louis.” Harry shifts his head closer to Louis’ on the pillow they’re sharing.

Louis gazes at him for a moment, Harry’s drooping eyes soft and affectionate and Louis feels a bit like he’s drifting through the air, light as a feather, like he’s being carried away by a faint spring breeze.

“Ah. Well, I’ve got half a bottle of Bacardi left in my drawer? It’s the small one, though.”

Harry makes another noise. “I don’t think that’s gonna ensure our survival somehow,” he murmurs, voice muffled in the pillowcase.

Louis feigns a pout, temporarily tensing up when Harry cutely pokes at his nose, the squishy pad of his finger prodding at it frivolously, smiling.

Louis puffs out a laugh, the patter of his heart speeding up when Harry begins to slowly trail his fingertip from his nose to just under his bottom lip, pausing there.

Everything’s just so soft and it sparks something electric to swoop in the pit of his belly.

It’s gone from heavy breathing, wet kisses and sweaty bodies to lying down together, gentle touches and tired eyes.

Louis breathes out unsteadily, heart rate speeding up further as his eyes fall to Harry’s own plush lips, a raspberry pink colour now and a bit dry. He doesn’t even want to go further, he just has the urge to play with his hair, to dampen his lips, unconsciously leaning closer when—

“I saw someone I used to know tonight,” Harry says slowly, eyes closed, and voice so quiet that Louis wonders if he’s imagined it. “It’s why I panicked.”

“Someone who brought up bad memories?” Louis wonders, murmuring the words slowly, frowning when Harry opens his eyes, glassy green staring into his. He brings his hand up again and rests it lightly atop Louis’ cheek, fingertips leaving embers in their wake as he caresses down to his neck.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes absently, seemingly adrift in thought, his gaze attentively caught with Louis’. He’s moved imperceptibly closer, their noses almost touching.

“Harry,” Louis murmurs, reaching up and taking his hand in his, threading their fingers together loosely.

They stay like that for a few more moments and then Harry is shifting on the mattress with a creak, burrowing further under the covers. “Is it okay if we sleep now?” Harry whispers, eyes barely open, his fingertips now languidly tracing over Louis’ forehead and sliding down to his cheekbones, stopping just short of Louis’ parted mouth.

Harry closes his eyes once more, lashes fanning over the slightly darkened skin underneath them.

“Of course we can.” Louis’ hand winds around Harry’s waist, clutching him securely beneath his grasp.

He’s on the verge of falling asleep again when he feels Harry shift, scooting his body closer until their chests are pressed together, placing his curled hands against Louis’ heartbeat and burying his face in his shoulder, nose pressing against his pulse point.

Louis slowly wraps both of his arms around Harry, pressing his thumb into his back. Harry sighs into his neck and Louis’ eyes flutter shut, sinking into the other boy’s slender frame, ankles tangled together.

**

When Louis wakes up, Harry is still in his arms, face hidden in his chest and torso half way down the mattress, hands clutched under his chin.

Louis’ heart constricts. “Fuck, you’re cute,” he breathes.

Harry hums, making the most adorable, sleepy whine he’s ever heard. Shit, this is doing him in. His tummy is very unsettled right now.

“Harry,” he whispers, “I really need to wee, and you’re kind of restricting my blood flow right now. You’re gonna have to let me go,” he giggles.

Harry wriggles lazily in his arms, clutching onto him tighter. “No can do,” he mumbles into his chest, lips grazing Louis’ the base of his throat, hiding his smile.

Louis sighs fondly and rests his head atop Harry’s, leisurely rubbing patterns into his back as Harry keeps a strong hold on Louis’ waist.

It’s another excruciating ten minutes before Louis can ignore nature’s call no longer, and finally releases himself from Harry’s grip, also desperate to remove himself from Harry’s arms because now he’s realised he’s also getting, um, hard.

He hears Harry whine, brows furrowing as he preciously curls in on himself, his big long limbs tucked to him, entirely too lovely and sweet, and Louis begs a higher being to give him a fucking break.

But no.

Even the trip to the toilet is a tricky one. Especially because Perrie’s prying eyes nose their way into his bedroom, a cup of tea cushioned between her hands and her face the picture of absolute delight.

She starts to coo in that high-pitched way of hers and Louis sends her a deadly glare, hastily shutting his door, shielding the view of Harry still lounged out in his bed.

“Don’t say a word,” Louis warns her as he passes her to get into the bathroom, Perrie holding up one hand in surrender, smirking.

**

It’s Friday and Louis has overslept. Again. Some semester this is turning out to be. But when he hasn’t had his morning cup of tea, Louis really couldn’t give two shits about panicking until it’s after midday.

He blearily slides over to his bedside table with a groan and picks up his phone, noticing the  _twelve_  messages sent from Harry last night. Even though he’s literally two doors down. It seems someone else couldn’t sleep either.

Though despite his grumpy mood, he can’t stop the smiles as he reads through the mostly unfathomable texts, consisting of too many emojis, song lyrics and terrible puns. And his name. There are a  _lot_  of  _Louis’_  typed out.

Embarrassing.

Louis hides his face in his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear, a warmth settling in his chest that’s fast becoming addictive.

And he realises with a start he’s itching to see Harry again already.

God.

He literally saw him last night and all day long when they weren’t in lectures, consuming multiple coffees and sharing ear buds like losers, knees pressed together and wrapped up in their thick coats and scarves, beanies atop their heads and noses red from the wintry flurries as they bickered about the pros and cons of fucking microwave cooking.

Then they went home and Harry did them a stir-fry, everyone else either out or knocked out in their rooms, and they curled up on Louis’ bed, limbs entangled as they watched the shittiest films on Netflix they could find, sharing some weed Louis nicked off Niall and happily giggled their way to oblivion.

Eventually Harry went back to his own bed, as he has done every night since he slept in Louis’ bed last Saturday, and Louis, he’s ashamed to admit, sniffed the living heck out of his pillowcase purely because it still smelled like Harry. (Apart from the weed, that is. Or maybe Louis was just high.)

Which isn’t really a good sign, Louis thinks. It’s disconcerting and it sends Louis spiralling into a panic every time he’s struck with the immense feeling of _missing_  Harry, when he’s seen him every day. It’s ridiculous and clingy and it’s just...

It’s not good.

He can’t stop thinking about that night, his patchy sleep intervals now plagued with the hot press of Harry’s hands, and his feverish kisses, and  _moaning_.

And then there’s the disheartening awareness that Harry hasn’t tried to kiss him again, or hinted about anything of the sort since.

They’ve not mentioned the events of the party either and Louis hasn’t brought it up.

But Harry has seemed happy enough, genuinely pleased to be spending time with Louis every day when they’re both free, having dinner together and Harry is still waiting in the mornings in the kitchen with Louis’ usual cup of tea.

Although, Louis’ still not eased up on his concerns over Harry’s panicked exit from the party, and he can’t stop wondering about who he saw there that made him react like that, but he’ll wait for Harry to talk about things in his own time, when or if he wants to. As long as he’s okay, Louis is, too.

And Jesus, this is starting to sound worrying in itself. Louis was under the impression that, like Harry, he didn’t want anything serious. That he was merely looking for a nice someone to distract him from his exhausted thoughts.

That nice pair of lips.

Only, he’s found that pair of lips, he’s kissed that pair of lips, and now that pair of lips don’t want anything else to do with Louis’ anatomy. Unless it involves a friendly hug of greeting and departure.

So, that’s where things are at right now. Harry clearly just wants to be friends and nothing else.

There’s no distractions, no touching, and certainly no kissing.

Louis would say it’s fine. And, yeah, it is fine. He respects Harry’s feelings and his wishes, of course he does. Anything sexual between them is just not going to happen again. That party was a one-off and that’s that.

And, anyway, being Harry’s friend is lovely. It’s the best. Louis has fun with Harry. It’s really okay.

Except, it’s only been five days and already it’s a daily struggle to keep his restraint under control, especially when Harry has appeared sleep mussed from his room every morning, or when he’s dressed to go out in a particularly quirky shirt and tight jeans, or when he pulls Louis in for a cuddle at random intervals, and catches Perrie snickering into her coffee when Louis gets a bit too into it and maybe starts inhaling his hair.

"You've got a problem, pet," Perrie informed him unhelpfully.

Because yeah. He might be a tad obsessed with Harry's hair. Ahem. It's embarrassing and he just wants to forget about Harry for one day. Is that too much to ask?

Woe is Louis. 

But still, he has to get up at some point today. He’s still got a Friday afternoon lecture to get to, and he just needs to focus on that, or at this rate, his Christmas break is going to be a stressful, chaotic rush of blurry, bloodshot eyes, Microsoft Word documents and caffeine shakes.

So Louis reluctantly heaves himself up and pads into the kitchen, wincing as his bare feet connect with the cold tiles. He exhales heavily as he rubs his eyes, joggers slipping down his hips as he releases a yawn, reaching up for the box of cornflakes in the top cupboard, (who even did that? They will pay) swearing and grunting under his breath as he struggles to reach it.

It’s when he’s about to lift himself on top of the kitchen counter that a warm arm brushes his shoulder, retrieving the cereal box for him and offering it to Louis’ bemused but pleased face.

He smiles, instantly turning to goo when he’s greeted with Harry smiling down at him, looking softly ruffled, and also like he’s just woken up too.

“Thanks,” Louis breathes, blinking dazedly. “Hi.”

“Good morning,” Harry replies, voice deep and scratchy from sleep.

“Morning.” Louis brushes away his fringe that’s fallen into his eyes.

Harry smiles, relaxed and soft. “Have you got any plans for today?”

Louis shrugs his shoulders noncommittally. “Other than my afternoon lecture at one? Um, I might go shopping? Need some more pants,” he says wryly.

“Nice. Everyone needs good pairs of pants.”

“Absolutely.” Louis places his football patterned bowl on the worktop, which Harry tracks with a smirk, and shakes out some cornflakes.

"Do you, um, think I could come with you?" Harry asks after a moment.

Louis swallows down the urge to make an innuendo. Because apparently,  _sex_  is still the primary subject on his brain, but he restrains himself. Barely. God, he's such a horny mess. He stares at Harry's face, trying desperately to stop picturing the way he looked that night, lips bright red and shiny, slick from being wrapped around his—

"Uh, yeah. Sure," he splutters, cheeks heating up. He's needs a cold shower pronto. He shifts on the spot, toes curling inwards, feeling exposed under Harry's deeply focused gaze.

"Okay, cool," Harry smiles crookedly, a dimple appearing in his left cheek, watching Louis as he pours some milk into his cereal and spoons a mouthful, popping it into his mouth, crunching down, and... Harry is still staring at him. Unabashedly. His face is even softer and fond? Louis' tummy flutters. "Right. Well. I, um. I need to get dressed, so..."

"Mmhmm," Louis mumbles, milk dribbling down his chin. Oh, god.

Harry immediately laughs, all childlike giggles and lots of teeth, tearing a bit of kitchen roll from the side and actually  _dabs_ at his face.

Oh, my god.

Louis almost stops breathing. Obviously he’s been close to Harry before,  _much_  closer than this, (go away hot memories) but the air suddenly feels thick and hazy and Louis’ blinking rapidly at Harry's delighted mouth, dazed as the other boy beams down at him, his green eyes practically sparkling as if this is the most exciting thing he’s ever done in his life.

Wiping the milk off of Louis’ chin.

Je. Sus.

“Uh, sorry. I’m a right messy idiot,” Louis chuckles self-consciously, trying to move away.

“Half asleep, you are,” Harry says fondly, eyes both soft and aglint with mirth. He looks a tad infatuated, if Louis’ honest.

Perrie chooses this exact moment to saunter in, squinting with a hand in her bedraggled hair. She stops, clad in a vest top and tartan pyjama shorts and looks between them, eyes following Harry's hand as he continues to wipe at Louis' chin, unnecessarily thumbing at the corner of his mouth, Harry's eyes still swirling with glee.

She raises an eyebrow.

Louis is bright red. His face is fucking burning off.

"Okay, Harry, it's getting weird now," he laughs nervously. 

Harry's smile falters, smoothing out into a more neutral expression when he catches Perrie staring at him.

"Morning, lads," she chirps, pressing her lips together as she knowingly glances at Louis' mortified face. He is never going to hear the end of this.

"Good morning," Harry murmurs, looking back at Louis.

"Hey, Pez." Louis takes a step back, tugging on his fitted t-shirt and raking his fingers through his fringe. Well, that was... something.

Harry only smiles, green eyes gleaming lagoons in the sunlight that's filtering through the kitchen window, and Louis’ knees are literally weakening by the second, the longer he stares at the creases by Harry’s mouth, light pink and a little chapped, and Louis just wants to close the gap, press his lips to his, wet them a bit, sink into him—

“Okay, I’m gonna quickly jump in the shower and I’ll meet you out here in about half an hour, yeah? We can walk to uni together?”

Shower. Okay. Get your mind out of the gutter, Tommo.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure,” Louis rushes out, shoving another spoonful of cornflakes inside his mouth.

Harry grins and traipses to the bathroom, his pert bum being hugged by his too small joggers, ones that look oddly similar to a pair Louis owns.

Louis almost collapses on the spot.

"Jesus," Perrie says then, rolling her eyes and shaking her head as she switches on the kettle. 

**

Louis leaves his building around three, (his lecture having ended a few minutes earlier) with a half-empty coffee cup in his hand and his other clinging to the strap of his bag, hopping down the stone steps with a streak of giddiness fizzing underneath his layers. Because the sun’s out, even if it’s still bitterly cold, the fresh air caressing his cheeks as he squints, and Louis feels lighter than he's felt in ages.

He might know why that is, but he refuses to dwell on the cause, (for reasons) carrying his steps onto the pathway when he sees Harry walking towards him, a halo of sunlight and happiness and bundled softness, and Louis’ insides instantly flutter at the sight of him.

Fuck.

“Hi,” Harry says with a bitten smile, before he’s even got to him, taking a few more large strolls before he’s winding warm arms briefly around Louis’ neck.

Louis stiffens momentarily, aware of every place where they’re touching and awkwardly pats his back with the hand not holding his coffee, but smiles up at him, warm and happy to see the boy beaming back at him, Harry’s sole attention on Louis.

It’s flattering and lovely and, wow, Louis is really quite nauseous right now.

“Hey, Curly,” he greets, with a voice far softer than he meant to sound. He takes a step backwards, admiring Harry’s attire, mainly his usual lengthy black coat.

“My hair isn’t even particularly curly right now.” Harry’s eyes glitter as he gazes down at Louis' hand sneaking beneath his coat, (Harry quickly figured out Louis gets cold easily when he couldn’t stop landing his hands and feet on any part of Harry to warm them up) storing unlimited patience for Louis’ words and actions and annoying habits, wrapped up in his tone that can only be described as dotingly affectionate.

His eyes are just so unbelievably soft. Louis doesn’t know what to do with all this softness... He feels a bit drunk if he’s honest, and _clingy._ God, so clingy. He just wants to touch him. Hold his hand.

And _, god,_ Louis so _badly_ wants to kiss him again. And if he weren’t so fucking smitten, so increasingly infatuated, (because no, there’s no point in denying it, Louis has a big fat _crush_ ) he’d consider putting some distance between them. Dial it back a notch. Rein it in a tad.

But that’s literally impossible at this point. Because by the way Harry’s beaming down at him now, he’s not sure Harry would go for seeing each other less, anyway. They do live together. So either way, it’d be difficult to get around not seeing each other. And the weeks where they weren’t talking were bad enough. Louis' not going back to that again. No way.

Something’s changed between them. A window’s been left ajar, some blinds have been opened. Something’s most definitely shifted. Any inhibitions or shyness have melted away and softened significantly.

And Louis’ a bit scared as to what exactly that is and why, but he doesn’t want to think about that right now.

Instead Louis’ gaze zeroes in on the wild tresses of Harry’s hair above his forehead.

“Well, I don't know,” he says, reaching out to tug on a strand, styled up into a floppy quiff, all coquettish eyes and warm smiles, sparks beneath his fingertips.  "There’s still some luscious waves going on in that bundle of perfection,” he teases.

Harry grins, lopsided and wide. “Bundle of perfection?”

Louis nods. “Yep. And as my hair is quite fantastic on its own, you be thrilled by that compliment, Harold.”

He can’t hide his smile as Harry’s fingers brush through Louis’ fringe delicately. Louis doesn’t dare breathe, his heart stuttering.

“Yeah, it is,” Harry smiles. “Soft, too.”

Louis gapes up at him, his brain suddenly having ceased to remember the instructions to blink.

Harry chuckles, breathy and charmed.

Louis feels a bit off-balance. _Giddy._

“Are we off, then?” Harry smiles crookedly. That dimple. Louis would be happy to shrink down to less than an inch tall if he could live in that dimple for the rest of his life, make a nice little home there, a safe cosy place, all warm and comfy and...

And what is he even on about? Nonsense. Gibberish, that’s what he’s talking. Because Harry makes his brain wonky. This is all so uncharted for Louis. He doesn’t know what to make of half the things he’s feeling when stood in front of this gangly, smiley, pretty boy. He’s so out of his realm, out of his comfort zone.

And Louis kind of, sort of, finds he really doesn’t mind.

“Yeah,” Louis nods a bit manically, shaking himself out of his ridiculous reverie. “My car is parked just around the corner.”

“Okay,” Harry says, happily falling into step beside him, clutching his own bag over his shoulder and constantly sneaking coy glances in Louis’ direction, absolute craters for dimples forming in each of his rosy cheeks as he follows Louis to his car. (They really would make a nice little abode.)

Yeah, Louis couldn’t stay away from Harry now if he tried. 

And he most definitely doesn’t want to try either.

**

They don’t go shopping in the end. No, Louis drove them around instead, taking an abrupt detour that made Harry beam in surprise.

“Where’re we going?” he giggled, bringing his knees clumsily to his chest in his seat.

“On an adventure, young one,” Louis replied, a smirk plastered to his cool cheeks.

They drove for ages. To nowhere in particular, just driving far out of London and towards the surrounding towns, speeding down country roads, the darkening skies and shadowy greenery rushing past their windows in a blur. They followed the roads back around again, the radio on offensively loud and with the windows rolled all the way down, despite the temperature being barely above four degrees.

“Harry! I’m fucking freezing. Close those windows!” Louis yelled, grinning so hard his face hurt.

The other boy was having none of it, closing his eyes with a mild smirk resting over his cherubic features, head tipped back against the seat, kicking his feet up onto the dash.

They laughed and laughed, listening to their favourite songs and not much else. And Louis’ heart raced faster and faster, getting more and more addicted to every radiant smile Harry aimed his way.

It wasn’t until they got nearer to the outskirts of London again that Louis made a split-second decision to take another detour, to his father’s house of all places.

He didn’t even know why he was driving in the direction of the place he despised, but he knew no one would be home, and whether it was adrenaline or giddiness or a moment of madness, he had his foot pressed down on the accelerator anyway, Harry curled up in the passenger seat, his curious eyes opening when they reached the posh neighbourhood.

It seems Harry doesn’t know why they’re stopping here either, eyebrows furrowing slightly from where he’s pressed against the window, feet still perched on the dash.

“Um. Louis? This is where your dad lives?” he says, sitting up and peering out the window, the tidy, sumptuous suburban road lit up by bright tawny streetlamps.

“Good observation,” Louis say dryly with a nod. “You remember it, then?” he smiles, reminded of the first time he met Harry. He feels a funny sense of nostalgia come over him, of startled wide eyes, clean denim and a wild set of curls.

It was the first time he’d ever laid eyes on Harry’s wide-eyed, fluffy head. He knows now that Harry saw him a while before Louis even knew he existed.

He turns to him now and wonders what would have happened between them if they’d met that night for Niall’s birthday instead, if anything would be different, if they’d hooked up right away and didn’t have these few weeks or so to form this carefree amity, when he hears Harry shift in the seat next to him. He brings his long legs down from the dash, knocking his boot buckles on the front glove compartment, large hands settled in his lap.

Louis pulls up on the opposite side of the road, the crunch of scattered gravel under the tires.

Harry frowns confusedly, glowing jade eyes fixed on the warmly, amber lit house, shadowed in the moonlight, the night sky a cloudless canvas of inky velvet, his silhouette more stunning than any of the stars dotted up there.

Oh, Christ. What is he saying now? He looks away, throat bobbing on a nervy swallow.

“Um, but  _why_  are we here? I must have missed you mentioning you were dropping by?” Harry says, brows twitching.

The downstairs lights have been left on, but Louis knows on Friday nights Tomlinson Senior goes into Central, dines his (latest) girlfriend, Alice, in the West End, and then heads to his reserved table at The Ivy until at least after midnight.

“No, I just decided to stop here while we’re passing,” he says easily, heart already set on something fun for tonight. “And he won’t be home. Don’t worry about that.”

“But what if he comes back?” Harry asks hesitantly, chin buried into his coat collar, hands slinking into his pockets.

“He won’t. Not until the early hours, anyway. As long as we’re gone before then, it’ll be fine, won’t it?” Louis turns off the engine and undoes his seat-belt, zipping up his jacket. He’s about to open the car door when Harry’s wrist encircles his forearm, halting Louis completely as he zeroes in on the contact, on the pads of Harry’s fingers clasping his coat sleeve.

“But what if we’re still here, and he recognizes your car? It’s past eleven, Louis.”

Louis barks out a disbelieving laugh. “Harry, he barely recognizes his own son most of the time. He has no idea what my car looks like. Believe me,” he grins.

From the pout on Harry’s face, it doesn’t seem to have eased his concerns much. “That’s not funny. That’s just sad,” he says quietly, frowning deeply.

Oh, he’s too lovely. Louis’ chest warms at his concern. He’s fast-becoming so incredibly attached to this boy.

“Hey?” Louis says softly.

Harry pulls his gaze away from the house, and settles back on Louis.

“We don’t have to go inside if you don’t want to. I just thought it might be fun to make use of an empty house,” he laughs. “We could raid his bar? He’s got an extensive wine collection?”

Harry puffs out his cheeks and exhales after a long moment. “Fine. Okay. But we can’t make a mess.”

“We’ll be tidy as anything.” Louis swears across his chest with his fingers.

Harry laughs, shaking his head. “Alright, then. Let’s go,” he grins, exiting the car from his side. They leave their bags in the backseat and Louis locks the car, scraping the soles of his shoes across the asphalt, and Harry presses close to him as they make their way up the front pathway to the ebony painted door.

Harry’s brows are knitted again when Louis gestures for him to walk inside, eyes constantly scanning their surroundings like an alert cat, head twisting to glance behind them whenever they enter a new room.

They get to the huge, contemporary kitchen and Louis immediately searches for some red wine, retrieving two glasses.

He lifts the bottle up in his hands delicately, nose in the air. “Our house wine, Monsieur? My, my, aren’t you a handsome one?” he smirks, his ridiculous attempt at a French accent softening the creases in Harry’s tentative features. “My name is _Louis_ ,” he enunciates. “May I take your coat for you, sir?”

Harry’s eyes are wide and bright, beaming as he watches Louis’ silliness. Louis hastily rids himself of his own coat and chucks it on a stool.

“Why, thank you. You’re too kind,” Harry replies in an equally pompous, posh accent, shimmying off his coat and revealing his half-undone, light pink shirt, rolled up to the elbows. Louis' eyes flicker over the pale expanse of Harry's smooth, defined chest before he drapes the black coat over his arm and folds it neatly on the stool next to his.

"Please, take a seat," he carries on, swishing his arms about flamboyantly. Harry makes an amused noise from where he’s leaning on the worktop, practically preening at Louis’ show.

Harry sits down, boots perched on the low metal bar underneath the worktop, grinning with twinkling eyes as Louis takes his time pouring out the wine and carefully plonks a glass down in front of Harry's delighted face. He instantly takes a sip.

"You're ridiculous,” Harry drawls, tongue sliding over his bottom lip, sloshing the wine around in his glass with loose fingers.

"But you like me, right?" Louis shoots back, smirking as he heaves himself up to sit on the counter, legs precariously dangling off the side, close to Harry's lap, nudging his knees. 

Harry bites into his bottom lip, eyes wide and glossy. "I suppose so," he sighs, feigning an eye roll and grabbing hold of his ankle.

"Oi," Louis pinches his side as he takes a large gulp of his own wine, Harry squirming away from his hand as he takes another sip of his, tongue peeking out to lick his lips as he looks around curiously.

“This is  _some_  house. Like, it’s huge.” Harry’s inquisitive eyes take it all in as he twists his body around on the stool, peering into the minimalist, cream living room.

“Yeah,” Louis says, raising his eyebrows. “It’s disgustingly over-the-top, right? I can’t stand it, to be honest.”

“It’s... a lot,” Harry snorts.

“Don’t I know it,” Louis rolls his eyes, returning the wine bottle back to its slot on the wall, sighing exaggeratedly. Everything is immaculate and orderly. Louis makes an unimpressed face. It's like the place is barely lived in. He flicks his gaze back to Harry, who he finds is already looking at him, mouth quirking upwards as he continues to knock back his wine. Louis takes one more sip of his, leaving half of it still in the glass because he’s just remembered he’s driving. 

“You still brought me here, though?” Harry says slowly, eyes attentively searching Louis' face. He feels a blush creep up his neck under his green stare.

“Yeah, well. It might be pompous and excessive, but it’s an alright place to take advantage of,” he winks.

Harry smirks, lips pressed to his glass. “Are you not gonna finish yours?” Harry asks when Louis puts his in front of him.

“Nah. I’m driving the getaway car, aren’t I?”

Harry squawks. “What? Don’t say that," he half-frowns, half-smirks, swatting at him unsuccessfully, and then his hand reaches out to grab Louis’ cold fingertips. Harry grins like a cat that's got the cream, squeezing Louis' fingers. "Got you."

The contact sparks through Louis’ skin jumpily. He pulls his hand back, chuckling uneasily. It's like stars are burying under his skin each time it comes into contact with Harry's, each touch igniting sparks within his cells, like he's the sun, and Harry's the moon, desperately chasing him, orbiting him, never quite catching him and...

Just what the fuck is he talking about? He had five _sips_ of wine.

“Drink up,” he says abruptly, tipping the glass in Harry’s hand. Harry laughs into it, fogging up the glass.

He sets it down, fingers brushing across the marble surface.

“Um. So, did you live here for a while?” Harry asks, eyes set upon Louis intently.

“No. Not really. When I was a teenager, after my parents divorced, I came over at weekends for a few hours because it was part of what they agreed in court. But I hated it. I wasn’t here much if I could help it.”

Louis uselessly sloshes the wine around in Harry’s glass.

Harry hums thoughtfully, taking this in with knitted brows and penetrating eyes and Louis has to look away again. Because Harry’s eyes are far too intense, far too tantalizing and all Louis wants to do is kiss the fuck out of him.

It’s a struggle.

“So... you don’t have a bedroom here, then?” Harry asks slowly.

Louis snaps his head up, a wave of heat sneaking up his neck when he sees Harry’s wide eyes gauging his reaction, lips curving into a crooked pressed smile.

Louis scoffs, slightly taken aback. “I might have done,” he grins.

Harry nods, smirking, but he doesn’t ask to see it. Louis’ only a tiny bit disappointed, but that is _not_ what he brought Harry here for.

Shit. He hopes Harry doesn’t think that’s why Louis did?

“You don’t think I brought you here to, you know, make  _use_  of an empty house, did you? Because, shit, Harry. I promise that’s not why I did,” Louis insists, feeling sweat start to bead at his hairline. God, he doesn't even know if that thing they agreed still stands. He doesn't want to assume. “I’m not expecting—”

“Oh, no, no. Of course not,” Harry chuckles, but Louis doesn’t miss the way Harry’s smile seems to falter.  

Before he can think too closely about it, or let awkward tension start to seep into what was previously relaxed ambiance, Louis clears his throat and hops down off the worktop. He walks over to the conservatory, feeling the heavy weight of Harry’s questioning gaze on his back. “Okay, good.”

“Where you going?” Harry calls, hearing the clunk of his boots on the floor as he dutifully follows Louis outside.

Louis turns around to see him poking his head out to see through the patio doors, the pool glistening a sky blue, the night sky a stark inky black in contrast.

“Are you completely sure your dad isn’t gonna turn up back here soon?” Harry asks again, stepping out onto the patio, his arms cushioning his stomach, shirt rolled to his elbows.

“I’m sure, Harry. God, you really are paranoid." Louis smiles, balancing along the edge of the pool, momentarily distracted by the way the pool’s light reflects over Harry’s features the nearer he gets to Louis.

"No, it's just... I don't want to make a bad impression, if something came up again. You know, with my painting..."

Painting?

Louis whips his head around to look at him, surprised. "Oh? Are you working on something? Are you still interested in your stuff being put up for the gallery?"

"Well..." Harry shrugs. "Maybe. I'm not sure yet. But I would like to keep my options open, just in case. And if he finds me here—with you—"

"Say no more. He won’t be back for hours. If at all,” Louis replies wryly, giving him raised eyebrows. “Promise. And if I’m wrong, just know I’m equipped to stealthily hide you like a ninja so.”

Harry shakes his head, chuckling airily.

“Fancy a dip?” Louis grins, slipping off his plimsolls, and rolling up his jeans to his knees. Because he’s a madman, apparently. It’s fucking arctic out here, his breath clouding the space in front of him, and he’s acting like it’s a summer evening.

Harry glances down at him, a doubtful expression spreading across his face. “ _Now_? Are you joking?” he laughs.

Louis sits by the pool and looks up, shrugging, challenging him with impish eyes. “Come on,” he says, patting the spot next to him.

“Louis, no! It’s too fucking cold!” His eyes widen as Louis pays no mind, moving to sit atop the edge of the pool, and submerging his legs in the water. It’s warm and pleasant and the lights around the perimeter are glowing bright gold, mixing with dim blue.

“It’s a heated pool,” Louis waves away. “It’s _fine_.”

Harry quirks an eyebrow at the stray discoloured leaf floating atop the water's surface.

Louis gestures to the water, dipping his hand in and flicking a small wave in Harry’s direction.

“Hey!” he whines, glaring. “At least wait until I’m semi-heated up,” he mumbles. He gives Louis a pout, feigning grumpy brows.

Louis laughs. Even harder when Harry starts to laugh reluctantly, too, stubbornly trying to keep the glare firmly on his face. He’s just too cute when he tries to seem bothered, or when he actually is disgruntled and annoyed. It’s the funniest thing to see and it only winds up Harry more. So of course Louis makes use of that.

He flicks water at him again.

“Louis,” he warns, pointing a finger at him sternly. He’s so fucking cute.

“Oh!” Louis laughs breathlessly, covering his mouth.

Harry shakes his head but sits down beside him, cautious.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Louis starts giggling. “You’re so suspicious.”

Harry crosses his legs on the concrete as he sits down, leaving a noticeable space between them. Louis wants to close the gap immediately.

Harry inhales the chilly air. “We might not have known each other for that long, but I already know what you’re like.” He gives Louis a sideways glance, raising an eyebrow primly. 

“And what’s that, then?” Louis says, voice as soft an candyfloss. It’s just as sickly sweet, too.

Harry rolls his eyes. “You’ll push me in.” Louis scoffs, shaking his head as he looks way. “You know you’ll try!”  He narrows his eyes at Louis when he glances back, and it only makes him laugh more.

“I won’t!” he insists, swirling his feet around the water as it sloshes around his calves. God, it really is warm despite his upper body being exposed to frostbite.

“Promise?” Harry says lowly, teeth starting to chatter together.

“Yes!” Louis says louder, throwing his head back in delight.

“Promise, Louis!” Harry yells, laughing now too, his arms wrapped around himself.

“Alright,” Louis says, a twinkle in his eye, swinging his arm around Harry’s neck, prompting him closer. Harry smiles instantly at the contact.

And shoves him right into the pool, a manic grin sweeping across his face, the water splashing upwards in a enormous wave.

But of course Harry instinctively grabs Louis’ wrist in the middle of his shocked yelping and pulls him into the water with him.

His ears immediately fizz with loud but faraway silence as they move underwater in slow motion, weightless, apart from the gentle pressure of the water encompassing Louis’ body, entranced by the way Harry’s hair is floating around his head like a halo, their eyes open, air bubbles slowly dissipating from their noses as Louis glides towards Harry.

He hovers there for a moment, something in Harry’s eyes drawing him closer. Harry is staring steadily back at him, face aglow with the pool’s lights, pulling Louis into a pliable, dreamlike trance.

And whether it’s because they’re underwater and shielded from the world above for a moment, Louis lets go of all his inhibitions and floats forwards—and kisses Harry.

Their mouths briefly meet, and then suddenly they’re both pushing themselves upwards to the surface, mouths still attached as the water splashes around them, their arms flailing in an effort to keep afloat.

They part with a shared gasp, and Louis sucks in the air sharply as they catch their breath and come back into contact with the cold night air, water pooling down their faces. Their hair is matted and their clothes are utterly soaked through, sticking to their bodies as they swim in slow circles, heavily breathing, spluttering a bit while the water sloshes around them.

So kissing Harry still feels like nothing else he’s ever experienced. It still feels like the earth shattering event it felt like the first time, and yes, Louis absolutely wants to do it again.

He tries to make his mouth work, to form words, any words, but all he can do is heave shakily in and out, moving his arms languidly around in the water as he keeps himself afloat.

“Um, so, that just happened,” Harry says, deep and rumbling, one hand wiping more water droplets out of his glassy eyes, breaking the charged tension. His jaw is chattering, voice hoarse, and his eyelashes are stuck together as he takes long, slow blinks.

He's an otherworldly kind of gorgeous. “Yeah,” Louis replies dazedly.

Harry nods, submerging his shoulders in the warmth of the pool and Louis mirrors him.

Another ten seconds must pass where no one speaks. Louis feels dizzy. And not in the good way. Wooziness and apprehension creeping into his cells. They continue to obsessively brush their wet hair out of their faces, blinking rapidly at the other.

And then Louis bursts out laughing, not quite believing he just did that. He kissed Harry. Underwater. He kissed him underwater like they're in some kind of epic romance movie. Ridiculous. 

Harry starts giggling, too. But it sounds more like nervous laughter, especially when he abruptly stops and the air goes silent again.

“Do you...” Harry pauses, eyes wide and glossy green. “Do you want to kiss again?” His tone is casual, though his eyes are round and imploring, filled to the brim with a mixture of nervousness and desire and uncertainty, and Louis is just itching to close the gap between them, aching to get his mouth back on his.

“Yeah, uh, I wouldn’t be, um—“ Louis wipes his wet fringe out his eyes, avoiding Harry’s expectant gaze. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that idea.”

He clears his throat and finally meets Harry’s eyes.

Harry smiles like he’s the actual personification of the moon.

Lord.

And then they’re gravitating towards each other. Harry’s eyes stare intently into his, water droplets sliding down his pale skin, a pink blush on each of his cheeks, his lips plump, cherry red.

Harry hovers over his mouth, hooking his hands around Louis’ neck as he dips back in, connecting his lips with Louis’ and he kisses back instantly. Harry’s cold hands burn Louis’ skin at his nape, kissing him in earnest, soft pants escaping his throat as they meet again and again.

Sweet Jesus.

Louis grips onto Harry’s sides beneath the water, tugging him flush to his chest, squirming against the younger boy’s body as they continue to steal the breath from each other’s laboured lungs.

Harry’s large hands move to cradle Louis’ face, kissing him deeply, and it’s wet and warm and giddying, quiet moans escaping his puffy lips, slick with cherry shine.

Louis lifts his shaking hands out of the water, sliding them atop Harry’s shoulders and they kiss feverishly for what feels like ages. Louis is ribbing Harry’s bottom lip with his teeth when suddenly they’re both startled by the deafening sound of a car alarm, seemingly coming from the front of the house.

“Fuck,” they say in unison, panting.

“That wouldn’t be your dad would it?” Harry shivers, eyes a bit stunned before a dopey grin is then stretching across his flushed face, his teeth starting to resume their chattering as Louis takes Harry’s face in his hands, laughing almost hysterically, contagiously passing it to Harry, who starts to giggle, childlike and excited.

Louis takes one of Harry’s hands. “Let’s get out of here and get you dry, baby cakes.”

“Thanks, sweetcheeks,” Harry smiles. His eyes are bright and sparkling in the golden glow of the pool lights, the reflection of the water shimmering over Harry’s creamy, blotchy skin, his shirt halfway to completely undone.

Looks like Louis’ fingertips were a little eager. He doesn’t even remember that.

They get back inside, Louis darting upstairs and praying he's not dripping too much all over the floor to get to a linen closet and retrieve some towels. They dry off as best they can, and Harry inspects the floor for any puddles they've left behind. Louis makes sure everything is in the place it was before, washing up the wine glasses and collecting their coats. Harry double checks everything, of course. Paranoid little fella.

But of course, it's just as Louis’ shut the front door when a familiar car turns the corner into the road.

“Oh, fuck,” Louis breathes.

“Shit, what?” Harry whips his head around to look at Louis, eyes wide, who grabs Harry’s hand and pulls him behind the shield of the darkened front garage door to the side of the house.

“It’s my dad.”

That was a close fucking call. He doesn’t want to know how it would have gone if he had found Louis with Harry frolicking in the pool, considering his _stance_  on Louis. And gone would be any opportunity for Harry’s artwork.

“Louis,” Harry hisses, tightening his fingers around Louis’. “He’s gonna _notice_.”

“It’s fine, just... hold your breath.”

“What?” Harry practically shrieks.

Louis clamps a hand over his mouth as they move further around the corner, his father exiting his car along with Alice, his new girlfriend. He’s as emotionless as ever, dressed in a black three piece suit. He makes his way to the other side of the car to let Alice out. Louis supposes that’s something. Scoff.

They wait as the two of them finally get inside and Louis feels something warm and wet on his palm.

“Ew, Harry,” he laughs. Harry is licking his hand. Thoroughly.

Harry giggles loudly, muffled by Louis’ palm, holding onto Louis' wrist with his big ass paws.

“Shush! He might come back outside!”

Harry suddenly releases himself and makes a clumsy run for the car, clambering inside when Louis unlocks it.

Louis falls into giggles, following after him, blood pumping with adrenaline as he jumps into the driver’s seat, immediately turning the key in the ignition and switching the car heater on. They shiver in the dark for a few seconds and then they’re bursting into loud, breathless giggles, bodies shaking until they see someone come to one of the front windows, and they duck, waiting until the coast is clear before Louis drives them speedily back to campus, his bones warmer and looser than they’ve felt in ages.


	5. Five

 

When they finally get home at around one in the morning, unpleasantly stuck to their wet clothes, hair damp and drenched in chlorine, they both have a shower in the cubicles next to each other. Harry chats to him casually like he’s not bloody naked mere inches away from him, and Louis washes himself quickly because any longer standing in this heat and steam and listening to the deep, silky drawls of Harry’s voice is going to end up with Louis furiously wanking himself off in this very cubicle.

God. They kissed again.

Louis doesn’t even know if Harry wants it to happen a third time. He isn’t sure if it was only another one-off, or what, and he's not quite got it in him to ask just yet, so he’s playing it cool, leaving the ball safely kept in Harry’s court and waiting to see what he wants to do with it.

(While really hoping Harry does want to.)

“Lou?” he hears over the shower’s spray. It sounds very near, almost like there’s someone behind—

Louis whips his head around, letting out a short scream.

Harry falls into hysterical cackles, guffawing as he bends slightly to clutch his bare stomach, his lovely defined and toned stomach, sporting a tiny soft tum and a deep belly button. Louis’ gaze falls to it, remembering when Harry dipped his tongue inside his own. He really, really wants to do it back to Harry.

Oh, my god. And... shit. He’s hard. And he’s naked. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.

To make matters worse, Harry is stepping inside the shower, the water still streaming down vigorously.

“Can I come in?” he asks, eyes brimming with mirth. Thankfully his gaze is on Louis’ face at the moment.

“I think you already are,” Louis says huskily.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry smiles, or smirks, rather. Ugh. He loves his crooked smile, and his floppy curls, and god, his chest looks so smooth.

He just wants to run his soapy hands all over it.

So before his brain can catch up, and talk him out of it, Louis’ hand instinctively, blindly reaches out and slides down the silky, defined planes of the younger, taller boy’s torso, slathered in soap suds.

Harry’s smile weakens as he lets out a luscious shiver, smile faltering, faltering, until it’s gone completely, eyes cloudy with lust.

Louis exhales shakily as Harry determinedly crowds his space, eyelids flickering over his face hungrily. His mouth twitches, roaming his hand across Harry's chest, lowering it all the way to his lovely little tummy, Harry’s muscles jumping when Louis’ fingertips reach his side.

“Did you want something?” Louis murmurs quietly, lips pulling upwards, feeling impish and smug, watching Harry be this affected. By  _him_. He’s making Harry look like this, feel like this.

“Uh, uh,” Harry nods, face almost touching his now as he plants his nose beside Louis’, breathing laboured.

“Yeah? What’s that, Harold?” Louis asks, voice quiet, hoarse. He feels Harry’s slick hands grasp at his sides, his head drooping forwards to rest on his shoulder when they delve lower, sliding down his stomach. “What do you want?”

Harry’s fingertips lightly graze over Louis’ rapidly thickening cock and Louis gasps into the other boy’s wet skin, his teeth scraping across his neck as Harry takes it in his wet palm and starts to tug slowly.

A low moan escapes Harry’s lips as he pulls Louis snugly to fit against his body, his hands roaming up Louis’ soapy back, the spray and steam making Louis’ head increasingly hazy as Harry sucks on his bottom lip, tongue slipping inside Louis’ pliant, open mouth.

His hands soon find Louis’ bum, cupping his cheeks in his large hands, hands that Louis wants everywhere, wants every inch of his body explored by Harry until he’s a writhing wreck underneath him.

And then they’re both rubbing their bodies against each other, slick skin sliding easily.

Louis’ legs spread further apart, Harry placing his thigh between them, kissing his neck messily as the hot spray flicks across their skin, hot and bothered skin flushed red.

Louis pushes Harry back against the wall, away from the water raining down on them, and ruts on his thigh faster, pants quick and they’re both so hard, so worked up, and Harry’s cheeks are gorgeous pink blotches, his hair damp and curling at the ends.

Harry’s hands knead at the soft flesh of Louis’ bum cheeks, digging his fingers in harder as Louis thrusts up against his leg, his breathing growing more frantic the closer he gets to reaching his release. Louis screws his eyes shut, shivers tingling all over his wet skin and down his spine, trembling as Harry whimpers his name in Louis’ ear, over and over, until he robs Harry of muttering anything at all, putting a hand between them, so stupidly high on the sound of Harry’s stuttered breathing as he strokes him until he shudders breathlessly, stilling in Louis’ hand.

**

It’s Saturday night and the group is all perched around a low table in the corner of the sapphire illuminated club.

Harry is pressed up to Louis’ side, thighs warm and knees firmly touching each other’s bare skin through the rips in their jeans, everyone holding a shot, poised mid-air as they all get ready to down them at the same time.

See, they’ve barely left each other’s side today. They went to sleep wrapped around the other in Louis’ bed and didn’t leave the spot until midday. They got coffee and lunch and strolled around town, visiting every record shop they could find on Google maps in Central London’s vicinity, trying to find a song Harry couldn’t remember the title of. Then when they got back to halls, Harry cooked them spaghetti bolognaise and then they got ready to go out, dancing like idiots and singing along to a Europop playlist that Louis once made as a joke for a friend’s birthday, Whigfield’s ‘Saturday Night’ on repeat. Harry guffawed, almost choking on his vodka and coke pre-drink as Louis danced ridiculously on Harry’s bed, (which was still disappointingly missing any signs that Harry was working on anything arty) thrusting his hips into the air seductively, while he watched Harry style his chocolate curls that took him almost forty minutes.

And Louis’ still feeling high and buzzed off the feel of Harry’s wet, lush skin brushing against his from the early hours of this morning, shuddering briefly as he swallows the burn of the liquid down his throat, breath catching when Harry immediately turns to him with a flushed smile. His lips are glossed over with a shiny ruby hue, eyes crinkled as he giggles, wiping his stretched mouth with the back of his hand, dimples buried either side of his sparkling beam as he gently bounces on his cushioned squared seat.

A drop of the clear liquid dribbles down his chin, and in an echo of what Harry did the day before, Louis reaches out to wipe it away with his thumb, fingers curled, pressing lightly into Harry’s jaw.

“You’ve got something there, messy pup,” Louis says softly.

Harry’s eyes flicker with something akin to awed affection as he gazes back at Louis, who leaves his hand where it rests gingerly on Harry’s chin.

The younger boy breaks into a radiant smile, brighter than any of the neon lights in the club, pleased and eyes brimming with open fondness, nosing at Louis’ hand cutely. Jesus. Louis’ heart almost gives out, the smile wiped clean off his face and his mouth slightly agape as Harry nuzzles his palm. Harry merely giggles, his own hand clamping down on Louis’ thigh and squeezing it once.

“You two dating or what?” Niall says suddenly, whipping Louis out of his reverie.

“We’re friends, thank you, Neil,” Louis shoots back with a scowl.

“You're cute together.” Niall smirks, leaning back into his side of the leather seating (actual seating, not like Louis' stupid thing that resembles a beanbag), his clear blue eyes mischievous as he looks at Harry, who’s thankfully not listening, just laughing manically, happily, as he watches Liam struggle with another tray of drinks, spilling half of a tonic bottle down his trousers. Louis feels warm. "Don't think I've not noticed that Harry follows you around like a little puppy. You're just as bad as him, though."

Liam laughs at Harry laughing at him; Louis laughs at the both of them.

Until Niall touches his arm and plonks himself next to him.

“You’re getting on well,” he states.

Louis sighs on an eye roll, turning to Niall with an unimpressed face.

“Good observation, friend. What's your point? Come on. What are you dying to say, Neil?"

Niall shrugs, taking another gulp of his drink.

“Harry likes you. He's been chewing my ear off about you lately. I’m sick of hearing your name,” he says casually, knocking back another shot left on the table as well as holding a pint in his hand. Jesus. 

Louis frowns at Niall, but his heart is beating overtime, attention piqued. Because what? Harry's been talking about him?

“What’s he been saying?” he asks, trying not to sound too obviously desperate to know.

Niall, however, looks positively _smug_. Louis only feels anxious, if a bit hopeful, too. “Oh, you know. Stuff. Things.”

Louis groans, folding his arms over his tight crimson shirt. (He didn’t put it on because Harry said he thinks Louis looks even hotter in red. Nope.)

Harry blindly reaches for his leg as he talks to Jade and Jesy animatedly, doesn’t even seem to have realised he’s grabbed his knee. It’s like he’s instinctively reached out to touch him somehow, not even checking Louis is the one still next to him, only _knowing_ he is. Hands gravitating towards Louis subconsciously.

Kind of like how he's always going straight to Louis' bed when he sleepwalks.

It feels weird. And disconcerting. He looks up and is greeted with Niall studying him intently.

“Look, whatever you might think, we’re not a couple, alright?” Louis says before Niall can assume. 

“I think you’d be good for each other,” Niall says in response.

And for Christ’s sake. Louis really doesn’t need to hear this. He’s already becoming highly confused about the butterflies Harry is persistently stirring in his gut. As far as he’s aware, Harry still isn’t looking to date anyone. They’re just having fun, testing things out. It’s comfort. Distracting them from everything else. They haven’t even slept with each other. Blow jobs at parties and hand jobs in the shower are hardly solid indications that they’re in a relationship, are they? And god, why is Niall looking at him like this? All thoughtful and serious and—

Harry removes his hand from Louis’ knee and he curses himself for instantly missing the touch.

“I’ll get us another drink,” Harry beams down at him. “Same again, babe?”

Babe. Good lord. They have pet names for each other now? Louis feels faint.

“Yeah, cheers, lo—Harry,” he corrects. _Love._ He was going to do it, too. Fuck. He was going call him _love_. Niall hides his shit-eating grin by biting his nails, as he watches Louis' inward panic take hold of him. He's fucking sweating. But. It’s just a nickname. It doesn’t mean anything. They're just words. So he tells Niall to talk about something else, decidedly ignores Niall's sniggering, and gets back to enjoying the night.

But of course, as the night wears on, and considering the day has gone so incredibly well, something was bound to go wrong eventually.

Like now, for instance.

Louis’ sitting in the corner on the fucking uncomfortable low cushioned seat, guzzling drink after drink that’s being put in his hand by Niall, or Perrie or whomever’s the closest, ignoring their pitying eyebrows as he stares longingly at Harry.

Harry, who’s currently being chatted up by a boy by the bar, one that’s been relentlessly making Harry laugh and smile for the last twenty minutes. He went over to get him and Louis more drinks and instead of Louis going over there to get them, he's been sitting here obsessively watching while Harry shoots the odd, questioning glance his way, his smile faltering but then falling quickly back into laughter.

Louis feels strangely like he’s been winded by a hefty punch to the sternum, his temples throbbing with jealousy. He’s so vehemently against someone else being this close to Harry. And it’s irrational and ridiculous and unnecessary that he’s being like this but.

He’s _jealous_.

His shirt suddenly feels too restricting and his throat is tight, and his head hurts and he just wants to get out of here, the guy’s hand holding onto Harry’s elbow more than enough for his miserable eyes to take.

That is until the guy lunges forward and captures Harry’s lips.

Louis shoots up from his seat and makes a run for the cloakroom, the image burning behind his eyelids and a huge knot in his stomach of  _no, no no._  

He feels sick as he collects his coat and hurriedly makes his way downstairs, eyes stupidly burning.

As the doors swing open, Louis gladly exits the club and enters the freezing cold night air, impatiently patting his jeans down for a cigarette.

“Fucking hell,” Louis mutters to himself, shivering sharply as he struggles to light the end.

After another few minutes, the doors slam open again, connecting with the brick wall, and there’s a couple of gruff voices complaining (the bouncers at the door, probably) and Louis turns to the side to glance over, met with Harry back in his long coat, the buckles of his boots clanking as his feet connect with the wet asphalt of the pavement, a deep furrowed brow briefly scanning over the scattered, scantily clad people outside having a smoke.

His eyes find Louis’ eventually, recognition lighting up his emerald eyes as he strides over to where Louis stands on the side of the road, freezing his arse off in his short-sleeved, crimson button down and flimsy black bomber jacket.

“Louis?”

When Louis doesn’t answer, Harry repeats his name. Louis stays stoically silent.

“Why’d you leave?” Harry asks before he even reaches him. “I’ve got our drinks.”

“Was kind of over being ignored like a lamp post, to be honest,” Louis mumbles, quietly, petulantly to the pavement between the cigarette in his mouth. He curses himself for acting like a jealous child.

This is ridiculous. Why is he even acting like this? He’s got no claim over Harry. They’re not... Louis’ not his boyfriend, is he?

This is stupid. This irrational streak of possessiveness for someone who isn’t even his.

Fun. That’s what they said this was going to be. But what are they even doing? Is that what’s happening here? Kisses and getting each other off sometimes? Few and far between? For comfort? A distraction? Friends with benefits? What?

Louis’ head hurts.

He glances at Harry, his stomach instantly pooling with guilt.

Harry stares back, eyes round. “Louis, what you saw in there just now—”

Louis shakes his head, inhaling another drag and exhaling rapidly. “You don’t have to explain it to me, Harry. This isn't," he flicks a finger between them, "like, exclusive or whatever, right? We're not dating," he laughs humourlessly. "Don’t mind me.” He tries to keep his voice even, casual. “You’re free to charm the ridiculously tight jeans off of anyone you—”

“No, no, Louis. No, you’ve got it wrong,” Harry insists, shaking his head fervently. “If you’d have stayed, you would have seen me push the guy away.” Harry looks almost desperate, mouth twisted and his eyes wider still, glossy in the bright golden glow of the street light, the faint sprinkling of sleet dampening Harry’s coat, causing the droplets to glisten like glitter.

“I didn’t want to kiss him. I wouldn’t want to."

Suddenly Louis isn’t really feeling his cigarette anymore, the taste barren in his mouth. He drops it to the floor and rotates the toe of his shoe atop it.

“I didn’t want anyone in there to kiss me,” Harry says quietly to the ground. “Except... maybe  _you_.”

The erratic pumping of Louis’ heart screeches to a halt and falls out somewhere near his arse with a heavy splat on the pavement.

“What?”

Harry walks up to him hesitantly, placing his hands lightly on Louis’ waist, as though he thinks Louis might push him off at any moment.

Like Louis would.

And isn’t that just tragic.

“Louis, about yesterday night—”

“You don't want it to happen again, do you?” Louis blinks up at him, voice resigned, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “It’s okay."

Harry’s suddenly wearing a confused expression, shaking his head ardently. He brings their faces closer together, his hands temporarily leaving Louis' waist, the pads of his cold fingers rising to barely graze at Louis' jaw. "No, no. I do," he whispers. "If you want?"

“I do want,” Louis says automatically, knowing he’s so close yet so far from what he wants, inching closer, closer, until their mouths are almost touching. 

Harry’s eyes flutter, his hands moving back down to his waist, gripping all the tighter. “But, I still want this to—I think we should just keep it casual,” he rumbles lazily, eyes drooping closed as their mouths brush. “I don't want anything serious right now.” 

Louis ignores the flash of discomfort that the words conjure within him, instead concentrating on the soft, tantalizing pull of Harry’s lips hovering over his. They're standing so close, the drizzly, brisk chill licking at their flushed cheeks, tingles shooting down Louis’ spine when Harry’s fingers tuck themselves beneath his jacket, pressing into the small of his back. Louis answers by gripping onto Harry's waist, too, hands moving steadily lower, smirking against Harry's mouth when the other boy's breath hitches as his palms press his behind.

“I know that,” he says, “and I get it. This doesn’t have to be anything you don't want it to be. We could be like... each other's distraction. Remember?" 

“Distraction," Harry murmurs back.

“Yeah," Louis affirms. "You’ve obviously got things playing on your mind that you don’t want to speak about yet. And I’m not having the best time right now, either. So, why don’t we just...” Louis brushes the bow of his mouth over Harry’s, belly fluttering as Harry sighs, “stick to each other for a while. Soothe our noisy minds with—”

“With what?” Harry breathes.

“Whatever you want. We’ll only kiss all day long if you want to,” Louis lilts, nose nuzzling his cheek, lidded eyes fixed on Harry's closed ones, silky and quivering. “Kissing is nice, right?”

"Really nice," Harry agrees. His soft exhale caresses Louis’ lips. He's quiet for a long moment and then, "Okay," is what he says evenly.

“Okay? Are you sure? I’m not trying to talk you into this, Harry, really I—”

“I know that,” Harry smiles softly, eyes and face open and relaxed, a lopsided, close-mouthed smile quirking the corners of his plump lips. Harry kisses Louis delicately, moving languidly over Louis’ mouth.

It immediately does exactly what Louis said it could. It soothes his innards, his anxieties, and he forgets about everything except the way Harry’s mouth moves so seamlessly over his own, melting into it until he's winding his arms around Harry’s neck, Harry tugging him closer.

"And, anyway. I'm not that desperate,” he teases when they part, though it feels like a lie on his tongue.

"I might be," Harry smirks.

Louis smiles, pushing away the strong feeling of déjà vu. Because they've had this exact conversation before, haven't they? Only now Louis is in far deeper than he was then. But he fists his hands in Harry’s jacket, determined to hold onto this boy for as long as he’ll let him.

"It'll be fun."

“Fun,” Harry agrees, eyes falling shut once again as he presses another soft kiss to his mouth. Louis deepens it, clutching onto Harry’s back a little tighter than usual.

He can barely feel his toes.

**

Louis’ been sitting with his laptop open, staring at a blank Word document for the last two hours now (in between Googling cat videos) and he's slowly going out of his mind. He could really do with a nap (with Harry) but napping will only end up making him feel worse and yucky so staying awake it is, then.

But then reading isn’t doing any good either. Any more note taking of his textbooks is going to inevitably lead to a migraine.

He needs a break.

So he gets up and walks to Harry’s door, knocking with finesse and definitely not nervous for any reason whatsoever. That’s just... whatever. Nope.

They’ve been spending a hell of a lot of time together lately. Just doing... stuff. Not _that_  kind of stuff. No, they’ve done nothing more than kiss a bit when they’re tired. They’ve kissed a lot, actually. Alright, so they’ve snogged each other senseless for hours on more than one occasion.

It’s become a regular thing. Kissing.

And they’ve also fallen into a pattern of sleeping in each other’s beds quite frequently. He just seems to sleep better with Harry there. And Harry’s been sleepwalking a lot less, so it’s proven this sleeping arrangement is an obvious positive for their health, right?

Right.

And yesterday afternoon? It was perfect. They spent the Sunday in Louis’ room, kissing lazily and sprawled out on Louis’ bed, bodies twisted up together in their hoodies and joggers, hoods up and sharing a joint in between soft make out sessions, hands clutching each other’s sides with their socked feet entangled, just talking, kissing, cuddling.

There was a knock on Louis' door at almost six in the evening and the two of them still hadn't come out from Louis' room. 

“Lou? Are you alive in there?” Perrie asked. He could practically feel her frown radiating through the wood.

“No!” Louis called. He could feel her eye roll through the door, too.

“Okay, just checking my bestie’s heart is still beating.”

Louis rolled his own eyes with a sigh, smirking against Harry’s chest, the younger boy’s arm nestled around his shoulders, playing with the tied string of Louis’ hoodie between his fingers, kissing his cheek every couple of seconds, nose smushing against it. It was precious. 

“Have you seen Harry? He’s not answering his door,” she said after a few moments. 

“Um...” Louis stalled, eyes widening at Harry, who was gazing happily down at him, content and soft, eyes hooded and continuing to press kisses to his face. Louis squirmed away, beaming, before he decided not to say anything. This bubble they had made was too delicate and comforting to Louis for it to be burst by their nosy friends just yet. “I think he went out to meet a friend."

Harry stilled mid-kiss and pulled back a fraction, fingertips moving to thread through Louis’ fringe instead, poking out of the front of his hood.

Louis stilled, too, afraid he’d disturbed their peaceful bubble by saying something he shouldn’t have. But what was so bad about not saying anything? They were just... distracting each other from stuff. That’s all.

 _‘Fun’_ is what they said.

Questions from other people would just complicate things. They'd presume they were dating, and Louis really wanted to keep this simple for as long as possible.

“I didn’t say anything wrong, did I?” Louis murmured when Harry ceased running his fingers through Louis’ hair, placing his hand at Louis’ hip.

Harry stared up at the ceiling. Louis snuggled closer to his side, his fingers bunched up in Harry’s t-shirt.

“No,” he said after a while.

“Okay,” Louis said, frowning at the succinct response.

Harry started to stroke Louis’ shoulder, his breaths even, Louis’ ear pressed to the steady rhythm of the other’s boy’s heartbeat.

“Tell me something about you?” Harry said suddenly, looking so sleepy and soft, eyelids heavy but his gaze still attentively fixed on Louis.

Louis chortled out a laugh into his chest. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything,” Harry mumbled, shrugging.

“Anything. Okay. Um, well, I’m an exhausted psychology major with four sisters and a penchant for crap doodling—”

“They’re not crap,” Harry scoffed. When Louis looked up, Harry was smiling. "And I already know those things."

“—and an obsession with tea?”

“I already know that, too," Harry pouted. "I want to know something no one else does."

Well, that was a tricky one, so Louis cooed. "Grumpy kitten," he said lowly, poking Harry's cheek with his finger. Harry pulled it away and wrapped his hand around all of Louis’ fingers, resting them atop his belly and holding them still.

Louis smiled. He let out a long sigh. “Well, just ask me a question or... I’ll ask you one?”

Harry pondered for a moment, lifting his head up to scoot down the mattress and laid it over Louis’ chest instead, curling his body around him and clinging to him like a monkey. “You ask me one,” he said finally, but it didn’t quite sound like that was what he’d wanted to say.

“Do you even like art, Harry?” he blurted out. Harry looked up, eyes carefully blank. “Because, Niall made out that it’s all you do, and I’ve barely seen you with a pencil in your hand. I know you’ve mentioned you might still go for the exhibition but...”

Harry lowered his gaze, shifting on the bed. “I don’t know. No, actually, that's not true," he corrected. "I do. I just... I lost the motivation for it, I suppose. Which isn't great when you're taking it as a bloody degree.” There’s a long stretch of silence. “I think I’ve got my inspiration for it back now, though.”

“Yeah?” Louis smiled, genuinely happy for him.

Harry hummed, lips pressed together. He held up his right palm for Louis to see, a smudge of blue paint near his wrist as proof. "I haven't forgotten about your dad's spring exhibition. I'm just keeping my options open until I decide if I want to go for it again. But, um, I might have something that I want to put forward," he murmured, shy and unsure, teeth sinking into his lip.

"That's great, Harry," Louis told him. Harry pecked a kiss to his chin.

Later, when Harry went back to his own bed, alone, Louis noticed the H written in biro on the inside of his own palm.

Louis’ deep in thought, imagining what it could possibly mean when—

A wild Harry instantly appears from behind the door, padding out into the hall as slowly as a damn baby tortoise.

He’s just woken up, then.

His slim long legs are clad in grey animal printed leggings and his feet are stuffed into sky blue socks with clouds on them, (they look a bit like Andy from Toy Story’s bedroom wallpaper) and a navy jumper patterned with white stars falls loosely over his extended torso. He’s all bed hair and mismatched clothes and rosebud mouth, and bright green eyes that blink sleepily back at Louis as he runs his hand through his bedraggled mop of hair.

“Alright?” he mumbles, smile blooming while his deep voice caresses Louis’ innards like melted dark chocolate, staring at Louis with an endless amount of fond in his eyes.

It’s a lot.

Louis gulps, standing up a bit straighter, unable to stop his hands from automatically finding his fringe, eyes glued to the contradiction of a boy standing calmly in front of him, expectant.

“Yeah, um. I was just wondering if you wanted to do something? We could go for a walk? I’m kind of sick of studying. Nothing’s going in.”

Harry seems to think about this for a moment, before he’s padding back inside his bedroom, Louis following him inside. “Okay, I’ll just get changed,” is his delayed response. “Give me a mo.”

“Okay,” Louis says as Harry shuts his door with a soft click. With Louis still inside. “Oh, shall I just—” Louis motions, turning around when he sees Harry ridding himself of his jumper.

The grin that Harry gives him feels like the rush Louis gets from throwing back three fucking shots in a row. “It’s alright, I won’t give you a striptease,” he laughs. “Not like it's anything you haven't seen before, though,” he winks, completely unbothered. 

“Oh, yeah, right. Obviously,” Louis stutters out. And god, when did he get so bloody bumbling and unsure of himself? He's literally seen Harry naked. He's so off-kilter, it’s disorientating.

Harry smirks. "Just gonna have a quick shower," he says, walking out of the door with his clothes and down the hall to the shared bathroom. 

He comes back in record time, curls pulled out of his eyes under a grey beanie, lips pressed idly together. He bounces on the spot a bit in what Louis has come to know now as Harry’s trademark suede boots, keeps his eyes fixed to Louis, intensely concentrated in a way that might actually hypnotise Louis into doing anything that Harry wants.

Because lord in heaven, those are some nice eyes. And yes, Louis would do absolutely anything Harry wanted without hesitating.

“So, um,” Harry starts, clearing his throat, “did you wanna grab something to eat?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Okay. We can do that,” Louis replies, plastering on what he hopes is a cool, unaffected expression. But judging by the heat he feels in his face, he’s willing to bet he looks as red as a fucking ripe strawberry.

This is a low point. He’s literally craving Harry’s mouth half the time, mind wandering off whenever he’s in a lecture far too frequently.

There’s a flash of surprise in Harry’s lovely pools of deep sea water eyes. That spot in the sun over the ocean that makes it look more greeney blue than actual blue. Or muddy grey if you’re in good old Great Britain.

“Oh, well, I thought that's—or did you just want to—”

“Well, yeah, that too,” Louis splutters in a panic. Actually, he was hoping to kiss the living daylights out of him and exchange handjobs, but... “I thought, um. I thought we could... um, hang? Hang out. And it’s coming up to two months that we’ve known each other now,” he rambles on. What is he on about?

“Oh... okay," Harry drawls. "Are we having an anniversary lunch, or something?” He laughs.

“Sure, why not.” Louis barrels on, mad. “And also, you know, since we share mutual friends, we could have a gossip. Trade secrets.”

Abort mission, brain. Oh, Jesus. A slew of random words are just pouring out now.

“Niall,” Harry states, another smug smile tugging that blowjob mouth of his, brows slightly confused.

Louis stares at his mouth, so large and plump and pink. Perhaps it was made to blow. Born to blow. Hah. Okay. No. He should shut off his brain. He’s being creepy now. And this is weird. The boy looks fucking angelic right now, all snuggly and sleep ruffled. He’s a baby angel. A cherub. There's a pillow mark by his nose. God. Someone switch his mess of a brain off.

Louis quickly swipes at his fringe, and doesn’t miss the way Harry immediately clocks the movement, eyes following Louis fix and fiddle with it obsessively. It’s like a nervous twitch. Maybe Harry knows that.

Fuck, he can sense his fear. He can smell his desperation. Abort, abort.

“Exactly. Niall. That blonde leprechaun. Annoying, isn’t he? Yes. I came here to ask you to get some food and join me to bitch about Niall’s foul, shady habits. So, would you like to go for a walk with me?”

Louis smiles, eyes crinkling. He’s reigning this mess back in. He can't have lost his touch completely. This is just embarrassing.

Harry tucks his hands into his front pockets and dips his shoulders slightly, eyes unwaveringly set upon Louis. “Yeah, I’d love to go for a walk with you,” he says, sounding so earnest, smile crooked and sunny and just generally giving Louis’ insides a fucking party. “Shall we go, then?”

“Yep, let’s go Curly.” Louis pats him on the back and leads him out, shutting the door behind him, completely ignoring the stirring in his stomach that dangerously resembles those pretty, fluttering insects again.

Oh, god.

“Oh, I forgot to mention. There’s this Auction happening on Friday?” Harry begins. “And it’s, um... the bidding is on dates with guys for a charity. I kind of got dragged into doing it by a friend,” he says, sheepish.

“Huh. I didn’t hear about that.”

“Yeah. Well, um, since we’re friends,” Harry says (friends who sleep in the same bed and kiss each other on the regular, and have made a pact to distract each other with their hands, Louis thinks bitterly), pausing, “I thought you could support my efforts for charity.”

Harry smiles at him brightly, twisting Louis’ insides up messily in the process.

 _Friends._ Louis shakes off the disappointment immediately, in no way willing to address that feeling at the moment. His head is all over the place. Clogged up with all sorts of thoughts. So he shoves them in a drawer in his head. He’ll deal with them at a later date, thanks.

“Of course, I’ll come and support you,” he smiles back evenly. “I’ll bring my card, too,” he winks.

“Good, because the highest bidder is the one going on the date, so,” Harry smirks.

“Oh, hah. Mmm,” Louis hums forcefully. “Great!”

Uh oh. Something vaguely ugly is rearing its head at the thought of someone else going on a date with Harry. It’s an irrational streak of jealousy, is what it is. And he needs to stop it right now. They’re not dating. It’s just fun. He knows this. So why is it starting to feel impossible to think that?

**

When they get back to halls, Harry’s impatient hands ambush Louis, startling him when he comes out of the bathroom and pulls him into Louis' room by the neck (Harry’s room is currently being blocked by Perrie, Jade and Luke doing who knows what—they seem to be on the floor playing cards with a bottle of vodka and some Diet Coke, barely noticing Louis and Harry even came home), kissing Louis hard on the mouth, dragging him backwards onto his bed until he’s on top of him.

Harry’s large paws grip at Louis’ bum, pushing him down.

“Jesus, someone’s eager,” Louis mumbles breathlessly against his lips, nipping Harry’s bottom one.

Harry squirms with a whine, bucking his hips up. “Louis. I _need.”_

Louis pulls away. “What? What do you need?” He mouths along his neck and Harry’s soft hands cradle Louis’ head, fingertips stroking lightly over his scalp, digging into his hair.

“Just...” Harry grips his bum harder and starts to rut against him, pulling Louis’ leg between his. Harry kisses him, short but lingering. “Want you. I don’t care how,” he says breathlessly. “Any way.” His cheeks are rosy red from the cold or arousal or both. “Anything.”

Louis’ breathing heavily already, too, heart racing inside his chest, spiking even more when Harry’s palm lays flat over it, the press of it searing through the material of his shirt.

“Anything?”

Harry flits his eyes up to Louis’. He hums, scooting back to rest against the pillow, propped up against the headboard, and pulls Louis to him by his shoulders, nodding firmly as he grips Louis’ hair at the back of his head.

“Want you,” he mumbles again, eyes whirlpools of glossy green, his puffy mouth pulled into a lidded smile. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Harry insists, beaming.

“Okay, uh,” Louis breathes, face stretching into his own wide smile. “Let’s get rid of these, shall we?”

Harry’s already wriggling out of his jeans and Louis wastes no time in pulling them down his legs, Harry impatiently kicking them off the bed and moving onto his shirt, lifting it off and throwing it somewhere on the floor.

“You next,” Harry smiles, thrilled, lying back in only his tented out boxers.

Louis speedily undresses and Harry giggles as he crosses his hands over his belly, watching Louis struggle to rid himself of his clothes, ankle caught in his jeans as he removes his socks.

“Shut up, you,” Louis grins. He settles on top of Harry, who instantly winds his hands around Louis’ neck as he dips back in, tilting Harry’s face and cupping it to the left as he kisses him,  deeper this time, more thoroughly, each slide of Harry’s tongue catching his making him feel giddier, Harry all too eager to kiss him back as enthusiastically.

He pulls back to settle his hips plush against Harry’s, coaxing him to lie down flat on the bed, connecting their mouths in another slick, heated kiss, purposeful hands sliding over the other boy, squeezing the softness of his hips, sweeping his hands curiously over the contours of his silky chest. 

Trailing his mouth over the pale, unmarked skin, he dabs soft, little kisses, eyes fluttering as Harry continues to massage his scalp, before starting to thumb at Harry’s stiff nipples the higher up he goes, sucking one into his mouth greedily.

Harry kicks out, one leg bending at the knee and the other hooking around Louis’ lower back, squirming and releasing a shrill moan into Louis’ mouth, so Louis thumbs it harder, fingers digging into his collarbones as he sucks at the bud, swirling his tongue around it relentlessly.

Another high-pitched whine escapes Harry’s throat, both of his hands clasping at Louis’ hair roughly as Louis continues to heartily suck his nipple into his mouth, moaning around it.

“Lou—Lou _is_ ,” Harry slurs as Louis releases the bud, hiding his face in Louis’ neck, breathing heavily as his hands shakily slide themselves under Louis' waistband, moving up to feel over his back.

Louis starts to rock into Harry, who responds instantly, bucking his hips up to meet Louis’, the hard line of his cock poking at Louis' stomach, every brush of Harry’s clammy skin on his slowly undoing him completely.

He’s so hard, and so fucking desperate. Louis reaches into his own boxers, leaning back on his knees, and gives the base a squeeze when Harry’s hand clamps around his wrist.

“Let me.”

Harry takes him in his hand and slowly starts to pump his cock, sitting up and holding the back of Louis’ head with his free hand, fingers scrunched up in his hair, eyes glued to his. He swipes his thumb over the slit, leaking precome and uses it for an easier slide, speeding up his fist.

Louis’ forehead nuzzles against the base of Harry’s throat, his hot, quickening breath disturbing Louis’ fringe. He blindly reaches for the waistband of Harry’s boxers and sticks a hand abruptly inside, causing Harry to gasp when he takes hold of Harry’s hard, leaking cock and starts to tug him off like he’s doing to him.

He lifts his head and keeps his eyes closed, face contorted in heightening pleasure as he pants into Harry’s agape mouth.

His lips are wet and Louis leans in for a kiss, Harry kissing him back headily as their hands speed up and the two of them let whimpering moans slip past their joined lips.

“Louis,” Harry moans, and that’s all it takes for Louis to come over Harry’s hand, the other boy coming a few more sharp tugs from Louis later.

“Oh, my god,” Louis wheezes, collapsing backwards onto the bed, biting his lip when Harry maneouvers himself to straddle Louis’ hips. 

“Come on, old man.” Harry grins down at him, forehead sweaty, with a glorious blush crawling high up his neck and cheekbones. He places his hands on Louis’ bare chest and starts kissing down his torso, Louis feeling his teeth sink into his lower belly. He playfully bites at his skin, pretending to munch on his flesh as he lifts his head up. Louis rolls his eyes, absolutely not endeared in any way by this silly boy.

“Excuse me?” Louis mock shrieks in his delayed response, too caught up in the emerald shine of Harry’s eyes, catching the light as the afternoon approaches evening. He lifts his eyebrows a bit indignantly, though. “I’m only twenty-one! That’s hardly past it. I’m just starting out my life, you cheeky shit!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry says, casually dipping his tongue into his belly button. Louis squirms, hands finding their way into Harry’s curls. “Sure you are.”

Louis gives his shoulder a shove. He can feel Harry’s grin graze his skin.

“What shall we do next?” Harry murmurs deeply into Louis’ skin. His dick is certainly twitching in interest, starting to thicken up again when Harry’s moist, puffy lips begin to dot light kisses to the shaft, poking out of his boxers.

Louis hooks his arms around Harry’s neck and swiftly flips them over so he’s on top. He’s got Harry on his back, instantly falling pliant underneath him, beaming as his hands tenderly stroke Louis’ cheeks with his thumbs.

The touch is so tender in fact, that Louis' suddenly struck with an uncomfortable feeling of dread running up and down his limbs, muscles tensing briefly.

Louis attempts to school his expression back into a smile but Harry seems to notice the change in Louis’ face, his own smile slipping slightly. His mouth parts as if to say something but Louis doesn’t get a chance to hear it because there’s a sudden ruckus from outside the door, joyous shouting and merry laughter filling the hallway. Loud footsteps bound towards Louis’ door and a fist starts banging against it.

Which is just marvellous.

“What in the fuck?” Louis snaps, frowning at the door.

“Oi, Tommo. You in there?” It’s Niall.

There’s a few whoops and leers. “Getting lucky, are we?” shouts another familiar voice.

“Jesus,” Louis rolls his eyes.

“Is that Niall?”

“Or Stan.”

“And the rest,” Harry sighs, his mouth now a petulant downturn of his lips. “Great.” He releases Louis’ face and holds onto the headboard, practically scowling as a thumping Drake track starts playing. “I suppose this is out the window now.”

He looks so put out that Louis can’t help the grin that spreads across his cheeks. He chews on his bottom lip, staring down at the grumpy kitten that is Harry. “We could go somewhere else?” he suggests.

“Nah, it’s okay,” Harry says after a moment. “They’ll see me come out of your room, anyway.”

“Oh. Okay.” Louis supposes it’s best if the rest of the guys don’t see Harry leaving his room. It’ll only start a nosy discussion and they don’t want their bubble disturbed, do they? “Do you want me to go out there first?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Louis says simply. “Though you might want to wipe your hand, mate,” he chuckles.

“Oh, shit, yeah.” Harry grimaces at his come sticky hand, then wipes it off on his t-shirt, disregarded on the floor.

They quickly get changed and Louis goes out to distract them, while Harry makes a mad, half-naked dash to the bathroom. Louis watches with amusement as his pert bum and Bambi limbs make a run for it just as Perrie appears, luckily just missing Harry.

“Alright, stranger.” Perrie smirks, thrusting a beer into his hand as he enters the rowdy kitchen. It’s an absolutely tip, the sink overflowing with dishes because Louis’ kind of been keeping Harry occupied lately... and the tea bags that Louis specially bought for himself have mysteriously gone missing. (He will find the culprit and they will pay. Not that he wants tea _right now_ , but you know. That’s his _tea_.) “What you been doing?”

Louis bites back the instinctive urge to say _Harry_ , but merely grins, taking a sip of his beer. “Stuff,” he shrugs.

“Wow, what a riveting description, Lou,” Perrie says sarcastically, giving him a nudge, Leigh-Anne appearing and swinging an arm around Perrie’s shoulder.

“Louis,” she greets, smile big and cheerful. “Where have you been hiding lately?”

“Nowhere,” he says casually, shaking his head. “I’ve just been busy. I’m a model student, I’ll have you know. Been studying.”

Louis leans back against the worktop, trying not to look Perrie in the eye.

“Oh, _studying?_ " Perrie says exaggeratedly, eyebrows raised and an impish twinkle in her immaculately done up eyes. "What's the text? Harry?”

Louis whips his head up. Leigh-Anne snorts, and Perrie's looking far too smug. “Er... _No_ ,” he says curtly, narrowing his eyes at her and prolonging the ‘o’ sound.

“So you two shagged yet?” Niall pipes up then. Louis throws his head back and groans dramatically. 

"Why are you _all_ so obsessed with my sex life? Mind your own business, will you!" he shrieks. Just as Harry walks in, wearing a crisp black button down, hair a bit of a mess but he looks wonderful, effortlessly gorgeous. And god, Louis so badly wants to go back to his room with him and just touch him all night long. 

Harry meets Louis’ gaze as everyone cheers at his arrival. He smiles widely at everybody, falling into easy banter instantly with their dorm mates, and Louis joins in, admiring Harry’s magnetic charisma, the way his eyes light up, basking in the drunken affection he's being smothered with, Louis trying to ignore the overwhelming sense of pride he has as he watches him. Desperately attempting to dampen the crazy idea forming inside his head, Harry finding his eyes repeatedly over the course of the manic, deafening, booze drenched evening.

The idea that Louis’ starting to see Harry in a different light. A worryingly intimate light. Perhaps starting with the letter B.  And... well, shit.

**

Louis and Harry are drunk.

“I feel a bit bad now, Lou,” Harry had said as he struggled to do up his shirt buttons, Louis’ somewhat blurry vision attempting to button them for him.

“Why? You had too many Woo Woo’s?”

“No, I’m going to a charity event half-wasted,” he pouted. “S’rude.”

Louis cooed, too endeared. “It’s not like any of the kids will be there. It’s in aid of the charity, but tonight is strictly adults only. It’s an auction for dates, for god’s sake,” he smiled fondly, Harry’s pout relaxing.

They got quite tipsy before they left halls, already on unsteady feet getting into Liam’s car, who rolled his eyes.

“I swear if either of you throw up in here, I’m going to dump you in the Thames,” said Liam’s stern tone.

Louis and Harry just giggled, side by side in the backseat. Angry Liam is always hilarious.

When they got there though, there was plenty more alcohol on hand, on trays and set out on tables, wine glasses and champagne bottles everywhere you looked amongst the extravagant white and blue decorations at the venue.

It turned out this Charity Bidding Gala or whatever it’s being called is being held by his own father’s girlfriend, Alice, and it started way too fucking early.

So they ditched it. Just for a bit.

The pissed look on his father’s face had Louis in stitches as he stumbled out of the venue with a very tipsy, flushed cheeked Harry on one arm, and an expensive bottle of champagne in the hand that Harry wasn’t clutching onto, struggling to regain his footing as Harry tripped over an ugly ass Persian rug sprawled in the middle of this fancy hotel, his chest bubbling with hysterical, buoyant laughter, and an indescribable warmth coursed through his cells at the knowledge Harry was blindly following him wherever he went.

It’s a nice feeling, to be liked that much by someone that they’re willing to follow you anywhere, even if it’s bound to get them in trouble.

Granted, Harry is in fact quite drunk. So... he might not be so willing to accompany Louis into such things normally when he’s sober.

Crap.

Which he feels really bad about now, because his father is here, and when he first met Harry, he made it clear that he wanted his art work to be displayed at his gallery, and since Harry has now told Louis he’s painting again, and that he might decide to put something forward for the gallery again, well, he might have fucked it up for him before he can even make a proper decision.

Because Louis’ gone and made a scene in the middle of a charity do—with Harry on his arm.

Fuck. What’s worse is Harry doesn’t seem to have realised this fact. Shit. He’s not sober enough to think about this too closely at the moment. Or about the possible temper Harry might reveal when he really thinks about what happened tonight. (Which he may be introduced to tomorrow morning.)

Which is why they’re now in Liam’s car, the speakers blasting ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’ on full volume, Louis attempting to distract himself by obsessively staring at Harry Styles’ rose petal lips, and has been for the last half hour, their breathy laughter fogging up the windows, clumsy hands gravitating towards each other, but stealing sly, purposeful touches amongst glossy, bitten smiles.

Louis briefly lets his eyelids flutter shut, biting his lip hard. “I love this song,” he sighs, heart brittle and eyes itchy as he mindlessly hums and sings along, the song beginning to fade out as the title lyrics repeat on a loop.

Harry’s frivolous, nonsensical giggles and gasps come to a standstill, smile faltering suddenly.

A look of something like curious awe replaces it as he stares at Louis, an almost burned out spliff cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers as he exhales silkily, his stray curls matted to his forehead.

“You’re quite the cigarette daydream, aren’t you, Styles.” Louis swallows, unable to break his gaze, and wordlessly takes the spliff from Harry’s pliant fingers, a hint of a smile colouring the other boy’s eyes.

Everything is hazy, in more ways than one.

“Has anyone ever told you that your voice is really lovely,” Harry murmurs in a non-question, hushed and syrupy. It also sounds uncomfortably earnest.

Louis feels dizzy, smiling back at him wryly. “It’s really not.”

“No, it is,” Harry insists, eyes dark and serious, a deep crease forming between his brows. “It’s gorgeous, actually. I could fall asleep to it."

"Oh, cheers," Louis laughs.

"No, I didn't mean it in a bad way! I mean, it's like... it sounds so soothing. I love it."

Louis purses the cigarette between his lips, self-consciously inhaling one more drag before stubbing it out in the car’s spotless ashtray. Oops.

The smoke clouds his vision, his feet up on the dash and his veins sparking with electricity as their hands brush again, Louis fascinated with the jade brightness of Harry’s glassy eyes, and the way his lips glisten crimson with every noisy slurp from the bottle of champagne they swiped from one of the tables, feeling too trapped and stuffy in a room full of pretentious, entitled rich people.

None of them actually care about the charity itself. They’re too busy trying to come across as the most generous person in the room, solely to further their popularity and reputations. Louis hates them.

Right now, though? Louis feels kind of incredible. Like there’s a direct halo of sunshine assaulting his face.

Because he’s sitting next to a nebula of a boy, heat radiating from his innards, weightless with the way Harry’s face transforms into a dopey smile and lights up everything around them. He’s the moon in the shadowy darkness of this antique car that Louis can only pray to Zeus (or Aphrodite or whatever God is best to pray to) that there’s not a scratch or stain on it—or Louis has a high chance of being beaten to death with a bottle of champagne if Liam gets his hands on him. (Before or after Liam is throttled by his own dad, he’s not sure.)

But he can’t bring himself to care all that much when as of now, Louis is soaring, (and yes, probably even flying) incredibly drunk, and entirely fucking infatuated with one Harry Styles and every single thing he does.

Louis feels a bit shit. A bit melancholy. A bit like he wants to write sad poetry about unrequited—No, that’s... fuck. Ugh, can he switch his brain off? When will they invent a way to do that. God.

“You do know we have to go back inside at some point?” Harry grins, head lolling to the side. “I’ve got to go up on that stage and be bid on, remember?”

“In this condition? You’ll be rolling off the stage at this rate.”

Harry chuckles deeply.

Louis stares at Harry’s mouth, red and plump, eyes flitting over his face, cheeks blotchy pink as they land on a loose curl dangling by his left eye, Harry still giggling unabashedly as his own gaze stays fixed to Louis like a moth to an extremely blazing hot flame. Louis wants to brush it away, let his fingers linger over’s Harry’s smooth, porcelain skin.

So he does exactly that before he can think twice about it, lets his fingertips graze over the soft, scorching skin of Harry’s face. Louis leans forwards and gently tucks the curl behind Harry’s ear, aware that Harry has stopped laughing completely, seemingly barely breathing.

Louis looks up to find Harry’s expression morphing into one akin to trepidation, wonder or lust, tracking Louis’ every movement, stilling further when Louis lets the pads of his fingers slide to Harry’s wet lips.

Louis lets out a stuttered breath as he feels Harry’s fingers wrap delicately around his wrist, inching closer to his pulse point, digging his thumb into the spot, tentatively rubbing the paper thin skin.

His chest feels tight and heavy, his breathing coming out in prolonged heavy breaths and without asking his body to, it hovers more closely to where Harry has angled his own to Louis’, dressed in his suit, ivory shirt and bow tie still perfectly intact, a white carnation pinned to his buttonhole like something out of a Victorian Gothic novel and Louis sort of wants to mess him up, leave him in a dishevelled, disoriented mess.

And then Harry’s leaning in even closer, eyes closing as he hovers over his mouth, nose tucking itself against Louis’ own.

Oh, dear god. Louis can’t breathe. Everything feels slow and droopy as he lets himself get lost in Harry’s orbit.

Harry pushes a hand against Louis’ chest, Louis pushing forwards against it as his heart jack-rabbits almost violently beneath his ribcage. Louis worries Harry can feel it. Fuck, he must feel it, before Harry is tentatively pressing his lips to Louis’.

He slowly pulls away, seeking out Louis’ eyes.

There’s a pause. Long and drawn out, one that sets the atmosphere off with a shit ton of suspense, driving Louis mad, and he’s half-wondering if he should just do it. Press their mouths together again when something in Harry’s eyes catches his.

Louis’ tongue is awfully dry. This champagne’s only making it worse.

Harry smirks, emerald eyes twinkling in the moonlight before he’s suddenly capturing Louis in a bruising kiss, hands gripping the sides of his blazer, Louis’ hands bunching up the smooth fabric of Harry’s own.

Harry gasps once against Louis’ mouth, before dipping back in and breathing out harshly through his nose.

Louis doesn't think he could ever get sick of this. Kissing Harry.

A high-pitched moan escapes Louis’ throat, desperately trying to get closer. Harry, in turn, presses up against Louis' body, deliberate, staring intensely into Louis' eyes, his hand roaming low, settling onto Louis' zipper.

Harry breathes in and out quickly, his forehead resting against Louis' before he's kissing him again. Louis reaches between their bodies, feeling Harry's hard length over his trousers, something almost frantic taking over.

“Wait,” Harry breaks off, pulling back again. “Are we, um—we’re still on the same page?” His eyes are wide, face contorted in unease, his voice breathless. Louis frowns, confused and a little frustrated, to be honest. 

And his face probably can’t disguise it. A sharp twinge of hurt climbing through his body.

“Obviously,” Louis says, trying to keep his face neutral. “I know what we agreed.”

Harry’s silent for a few beats, eyes slipping from his and staring down at his lap.

“Hey? What's up?” Louis nudges Harry’s slumped chin with his nose. “I’m not about to move my stuff into yours if we go further, Harry," he teases, smiling softly. He pauses. He should ease off, actually. They’re too drunk for this. “We probably shouldn’t do this now, anyway.” That makes Harry glance back up. “Let’s go back inside, yeah?”

“No, I want to keep doing this,” Harry says, a hint of a whine in there as his lips slowly quirk.

“Well, then,” Louis relents, because he’s weak. “If you don’t mind, would you please attach those sinful lips of yours back to my mouth? Thank you.”

"Okay," Harry breathes, smiling into the kiss, pressing his lips against Louis’ with feverish enthusiasm. Louis pulls hard on a clump of his hair. Harry groans deeply.

But before Louis can explore that little tidbit of new information, moving to climb into Harry’s lap, there’s a brisk knock on the car window, making them both jump.

Jesus, fuck.

Louis releases Harry’s jacket from his grip, breaking the kiss and smirking when Harry follows his mouth, unbothered about whoever’s outside.

“Oi, you two,” Liam’s voice says from behind the glass.

Louis sighs. “What?” he snaps as he unlocks the door.

“Jesus Christ, it reeks of weed in here you idiots!”

“Chill out. We’ll spray some air freshener,” Louis says on a eye roll. Harry bursts into hysterics. “Kids,” Louis quips, giving Harry a shove. “Can’t take them anywhere.”

“Hey! I’m only a couple years younger than you!” Harry squeals, hands pressing into Louis’ arm.

Louis narrows his eyes, puzzled. “I thought you were eighteen?”

Harry darts his gaze in the opposite direction.

“Louis,” Liam screeches. Louis winces, but keeps his eyes on Harry, who’s strangely still not looking at him, his features wiping any trace of a smile from his face as he stares at the dash. “Air freshener isn’t going to cut it,” he says, a vein in his head probably about to bust out. “Sort it out now!”

“Fine,” Louis says, distracted by Harry’s sudden caginess. “We’ll air out the car with the windows down.”

“You better hope the smell’s gone by the end of the night or I’m going to kill you dead, Lou.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Liam gives him one last exasperated look before stomping off like the diva he can be, and Louis turns to Harry, who’s fiddling with his lapels, needlessly smoothing them over.

“Harry?”

“We should just go inside now,” Harry says abruptly, his eyes hooked on a group of people exiting a limo in the car park in front of them.

“Okay?” Louis says, an unsettling feeling swirling in his gut.

“Actually, I think I just wanna go home,” Harry says instead, tone straightforward. It’s jarring. His face is blank, almost dazed. “Can we go home?”

“Harry—”

“Please,” Harry says, voice baring some normality again. But his eyes are imploring. Something’s wrong here.

“I don’t care that you’re older than you said you were, mate?” Louis tries to reassure him lightly. “So you skipped a year? I did as well. Dropped out of another. It’s nothing to hide—”

“I’m not hiding,” Harry turns to him, brows forming into a scowl.

“Alright,” Louis assures, careful not to panic the boy any more than he seemingly already has. Why would Harry be so scared about Louis knowing he’s a bit older than he said? “It’s fine. I won’t bring it up again. I’m sorry, okay?”

Harry gives him a stiff nod, before his gaze falls back to the group of people making their way inside. He then rubs hard at his eyes, tipping his head back on the headrest. "No. Shit. I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Don't be silly. Nothing to be sorry for,” Louis shrugs. “Come on. Liam will sadly have to deal with this smell and face his dad's wrath, unfortunately,” he laughs, which earns a tiny smirk from Harry. Ah, thank god. He’s not completely turned into a cornered puppy. “We better get back in there. You’re due on stage soon. If you still want to do that—”

“I will tell you.”

Louis turns back to him, confused. “Tell me what?”

“About me. My... stuff. Eventually. But not yet,” Harry says, resolute.

“Okay. I’ll be here.”

Harry starts to smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Louis chuckles, boldly taking Harry’s hand and squeezing it. Harry’s eyes zero in on their hands, a hint of trepidation glazing over them. 

Louis lets go, and Harry instantly folds his hands together.

Louis clears his throat. “Let’s get out of here then, pest.”

Harry follows him out the car, and stays close to his side as they walk towards the hotel’s entrance, shooting constant glances at Louis as he looks ahead.

“Can I stay—” Harry exhales. “Is it okay if I stay in your bed again tonight?”

"'Course. Don't we always have sleepovers in my bed now?" Louis retorts, smile playful, but his head hurts, clouding over with a cluster of conflicting emotions, all of which are not good.

Because Louis certainly doesn’t like where this is headed. But it’s too late now, isn’t it?

Louis’ already completely wrapped up in Harry Styles.

**

The last hour has dragged on at an excruciating rate with Louis stuck at a table surrounded by high pitched squealing and fucking ridiculous conversations, (controlling his Bitch Face has been one hell of a struggle) Liam having buggered off and left him to his lonesome (while he’s surrounded by stuck up socialites) about twenty minutes ago and not yet returned. The silver balloons atop the table are reflecting the bright spotlights from the high ceiling and Louis fixates on them as he determinedly guzzles down another glass of champagne that just keep miraculously appearing from thin air every time he looks up.

Because the second he walked back inside with Harry in tow, Tomlinson Senior strode towards him with a stormy expression on his botoxed face. Louis told Harry to quickly scarper before he saw him and readied himself for the bout of bullshit that was coming his way.

“Louis. Do you have any idea about the kind of people attending this event?” His father said, words twisting around his thin lips, cold blue eyes digging into his with incredulity.

“Stuck up millionaires, I imagine.”

“This is a _charity_  event, Louis. Show some respect and stop embarrassing yourself.”

“Oh, please! Like any of these people actually care about the charity their money is going towards. Although, this Alice actually seems like a decent person, organising this and choosing a children’s charity for the money it makes to go towards. She seems nice.”

His father lifted an eyebrow.

“Yeah, we had a nice pleasant chat earlier,” he confirmed. “She really cares about kids, it seems. Unlike you.”

The older man rolled his eyes, shooting a fake smile at an overdressed guest.

Louis scoffed bitterly. “What’s she thinking? What do anything of them think you’re actually like?”

His father gave him a hard look, fiddling with his cufflinks. Louis stared at him, senses dulled and feeling small.

“Just behave, Louis,” he sighed after a long moment, like Louis was just an inconvenience to him. “I think it’s best you don’t get up on stage. You can’t be trusted not to be crass.”

Louis swallowed the lump of hurt he didn’t want lodged in his throat as his father walked back inside, greeting a lady in white with a charming smile that twisted in Louis’ gut.

He sat at a table and scowled for the remainder of the wait for the auction to start.

But now, as he focuses his eyes on the other crowded, excitable tables, his legs seize up as they find Liam... and Harry, conversing easily and entirely too friendly for Louis’ liking. Liam. Traitor.

Liam looks at Louis then, face annoyingly amused and throws him a wink as he leaves Harry’s side, pretending to take a bite out of Harry’s shoulder.

“You’re not funny,” Louis mouths at him.

Harry looks at Louis.

Louis darts his eyes away quickly, sure Harry means for them to fondly meet gazes and Louis can’t have that right now.

Not while his brain is a messy clusterfuck of feelings, Harry mere feet away looking every inch the teenage dream, and Louis is suffering immensely.

He looks like actual art with his mussed chocolate drenched hair and his eyes that are so insanely bright green, he’s pretty sure they could curse you with a true love so great and snatch it away before you even got close enough. And not forgetting that lean body that lasts for ages, skin as pale as porcelain and lips that are so red, Louis seriously wonders if he snuck off to apply lipstick.

Or maybe it was Louis’ lips that did that in the car.

His mind is just really awfully muddled, okay? Everything feels a bit heavier now.

He can’t stop thinking about Harry. About what he’s hiding, or about what he’s going through because he won’t tell him anything important. And he’s in a shitty mood now, his father not helping, and everything is just generally shit.

“Alright, mate? Harry’s asking after you. Wants to know if you’re alright.”

Louis gives Liam a blank look. Harry’s been asking after Louis? Why doesn’t he just come over here himself? Weird. And also annoying.

But also... good. Yes. This is good. Maybe if he keeps on avoiding Harry, he’ll want to start getting to know Louis properly, instead of attacking him with his lips and refusing to talk about anything real.

Reverse psychology.

And Louis will get to kiss those soft, plush lips without worrying about what Harry’s feeling, because he’ll know and they can think about fixing it, and then... who knows where else that could lead. Candlelit steak dinners for two? Moonlit walks in the park? A stroll around town, hand in hand?

But no. He can't have that because that's not what they're doing here, is it? All Louis wanted was a pleasant distraction. Louis’ been craving one for months now. Because that’s all Louis wants from Harry. They’re friends who are sometimes more. Yes. That’s exactly what Louis wants. He doesn’t want to date Harry. He doesn’t. Louis sighs and cups his face with his hands, elbows resting on the table.

(And he’ll keep telling himself this until it’s true.)

“Why?” Louis drawls.

“I don’t know. Ask him. Maybe he just wants to be mates?” Liam’s looking at him weirdly, shiftily. Like he knows something Louis doesn’t, and isn't telling Louis the whole truth. He’s wearing the same face he had when he told Louis he’d spilled coffee on his open laptop.

Harry wants to be mates. Yeah, doesn’t Louis know it.

“What are you talking about? We're already mates. We’re friends,” Louis insists, irritated.

“...who sometimes snog?” Liam says slowly.

Louis narrows his eyes at Harry, who glances at him once, brows creasing before turning his winning smile back to the overexcited third-year girl speaking to him.

Charming bastard has everyone wrapped around his finger.

“Louis? What exactly is going on between you two?” Liam asks hesitantly, taking a seat next to him. Most of the table have up and left now, wandered over to other guests to chat.

Louis levels Liam with a loaded look.

“You like him, don’t you?” Liam states, doesn’t ask. “As more than a friend.”

Louis studies a section of the tablecloth intently, sniffs.  

“Even if I did, it doesn’t matter. Harry doesn’t want that. I promised him this was just something fun, not serious. For both of us. With someone we got on with easily. Some kind of shared comfort or whatever,” he lets out a short laugh, shaking his head because it sounds so stupid. So ridiculous to his own ears.

Liam eyes him with a thoughtful expression. “You don’t think Harry wants it to be more?”

“Li, he’s told me on more than one occasion. Told me again tonight, that this can't be more than it is. And I keep telling him it’s what I want, too. And it is. Okay? It is what I want. This is... me and Harry... it’s easy. We're having fun.” He shrugs.

“Right. _Easy_ ,” Liam nods, tone dubious.

There’s a few moments where no one speaks, then Liam says,  “He was asking about you earlier, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was asking what your dating history was like. If you were looking for a boyfriend anytime soon. Stuff like that.”

What? Louis screws his face up in confusion. Why is Harry asking that?

“I told him you’d never had a proper relationship before,” Liam says, slightly sheepish. “Was I meant to say that?”

Louis sighs. “Well, it’s done now.”

“I’m sorry, Lou,” he cringes.

“Nah, it’s fine, mate. It’s true, isn’t it.”

“It’s just—you’ve never expressed a serious desire for a boyfriend, really. You only ever talk about wanting a good pair of lips to keep you warm,” Liam chuckles. “You just wanted to have fun.”

Fuck, does Louis hate the words that come out of his own mouth now. Why did he ever keep saying that? Ugh.

That’s not what he wants anymore, is it? Before, he only kept saying it because he didn’t feel anything for anyone. He tried and it wasn’t happening. He wasn’t sleeping, he was sad and angry all the time, or feeling not much of anything at all.

Now? Now he’s starting to feel everything.

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, plastering on a forced smile. “That’s me,” he says dully, catching his reflection in the silver platter on the table. He heaves out a sigh and finishes his champagne.

**

It’s not long before the bidding is starting and Louis sits there with his body taut and fists clenched, his arms folded against his chest as he eyes all the people who can’t wait to get started and snag their dates. Giddy faces and high-pitched squeals deafen his hearing around his table. Yeah. It’s fucking precious.

Thankfully, most of the bidders seem to be students themselves, raising money in the name of their uni, their rich parents in tow with their cheque books out.

Five guys have been and gone up there so far, and now it’s Harry’s turn.

Super.

“One thousand pounds!” A girl shouts at the top of her lungs, so shrill that Louis winces, eyes momentarily bulging out because what the fuck?

“Two thousand!” Someone else yells.

“Five!” comes another eager voice.

For fuck’s sake. “Ten thousand,” Louis says loudly, as cool and as unaffected as he can muster, eyes locking firmly with Harry’s.

Harry’s head snaps up, smile faltering, eyes glittering with surprise under the pale blue glow of the spotlights. His eyes are pools of green and blue water, two large lagoons, wide and unblinking. A crease forms in the middle of his brows, mouth parting slightly as though he wants to say something. Louis sits back calmly, smirking at his win.

“Eleven thousand,” a male voice shouts out.

Fuck. No.

Louis whips his head around to take out the culprit with his blazing death glare to find a tall, tanned guy in a posh suit, his dark hair quite long and messy, standing at the table next to his. Like he’s purposely made it look dishevelled. Pretentious twat.

And he’s staring right up at Harry with something very unpleasant in his brown eyes, something cold and malicious. Smirking.

A fierce wave of protectiveness for Harry washes over him. Especially when he looks over at said boy on the stage looking small and... anxious. Oh no. His hands are his fists against his sides, wringing out and it’s like that night of the party at Liam’s.

He doesn’t look comfortable at all, that’s for bloody certain.

 _I saw someone I knew tonight._ Harry had said that afterwards.

Someone who brought up bad memories for him.

Louis hardens his glare at the guy who obviously did something to Harry in the past, something that caused him to have a panic attack when met with his face again.

And no. Louis is not fucking having this. He’s going to have to pull out the big guns. It’s a good job he’s got one of Tomlinson Senior’s bank cards then, isn’t it? And it’s for charity so he can’t say a fucking thing.

“Fifteen thousand pounds!” Louis bids, standing up with his hands in his trouser pockets like the smug bastard he feels like at this moment, sending a wink Pretentious Hair’s way. He also notices his father shoot him a glare. Hah. Tosser.

“Alright, Fifteen thousand pounds. Do we have any more bidders? Anyone higher than fifteen?”

Louis’ heart pumps erratically as he wills for no one else to make a higher bid for Harry, and certainly not the guy that’s making Harry go white as a sheet.

Come on. Just say it. Say he’s won.

“No? A date with Mr Harry Styles. Going once. Going Twice. Gone! For fifteen thousand pounds, to the young gentlemen over there—”

“Louis Tomlinson,” he says.

“—and the sixth bid of the night is won by Mr Louis Tomlinson! Thank you so much for your very generous offer for our children’s hospital charity this evening! And congratulations! You’re going on a date with Mr Harry Styles!”

Louis wastes no time messing around. He marches right up to the stage, shakes some hands, signs a cheque and grabs hold of a spaced out Harry.

“Alright?” he murmurs softly into Harry’s ear.

Harry turns his head to look at Louis, dazed. He’s never looked younger. “Yeah. M’fine,” he nods, barely.

“You’re not fine, but let’s get out of here and you can tell me all about it if you want to, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly, eyes scanning the crowd hesitantly once more. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You literally saved me just then.” Harry gives him a watery smile. Louis squeezes his hand.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I rewrote the first scene multiple times, so let's hope it's alright :) If there's any mistakes, I'll go back and fix them asap. (I can barely see right now). And thank you for reading! x

 

Harry didn't want to stay inside any longer than he had to. He strode right past the table Louis was sat at earlier (no sign of the bastard who caused Harry to feel this way), but not before he downed the champagne that was Louis', as he blinked on, and then Harry asked if they could get some air. And yeah. That’s definitely a good idea.

Louis leads Harry outside and through the glass entrance's doors, a whoosh of bitterly cold air connecting with their faces. Harry's teeth start to chatter together instantly, bless him, and Louis, having sobered up a little, feels the brisk air seep right though to his trousers and thin blazer. There might even be a frost out, November almost drawing to a close. 

“Fuck, it's freezing,” Louis mutters under his breath, keeping a protective hand hovering over the small of Harry’s back, about to pull him into a hug that he's planning on making last for about five hours when he jolts at hearing a wet sob coming from the boy in front of him. He snaps his head to look at the younger boy, his face hidden by his trembling, ringed hands.

“Harry?” Louis says, voice etched in concern. “Hey?” he lilts. 

Worry fills Louis’ lungs and tenses his limbs, settling like a blanket over his temples. Harry upset is the worst thing in the world, Louis thinks. And he just wants to make Harry's unhappiness disappear. 

He attempts to gently turn him around by the waist but Harry walks to the edge of the pavement and crouches down, pressing the backs of his palms to his eye sockets, taking shuddering breaths. His mouth quivers, and he makes a tutting sound with his tongue.

Louis feels useless. “Careful. You’ll rip a hole in those trousers,” he whispers pointlessly, attempting a feeble smile.

Harry cries harder.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Louis asks, eyes wide, placing a hand over his shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze before he’s rubbing what he hopes are soothing circles into his back.

Harry sniffs, staring up at the sky for a moment. The moon is a whimsical crescent shape tonight, a bright light in the midst of a clear black canvas of a sky. It's quite a sight, but Louis can only stare at the way Harry's green eyes glimmer, flecks of nearly amber or gold in his irises, lit up by the venue’s warm light that's pouring from the entrance behind them. “It's just... everytime I think I’m getting over it..." Harry groans once, annoyed. "I hate this,” he grits, brows pulling his features into a grimace.

Louis frowns, can feel the frustration seeping from Harry's cells. He clasps his forearm. "Get over what, Harry?" he asks quietly. Harry lets his bottom lip protrude, wet eyes meeting his. Louis feels like he's being forced to watch a bunch of rain-drenched kittens left alone in a box by the side of the road, abandoned, not allowed to do anything about it. Yeah, that analogy sounds about right. It’s wrong on all counts. “Hey, come on." Louis soothes, moving his hand up to his neck. "Who was that wanky looking kid back there?” he asks. Louis bends down next to him. “Is it the someone you saw at Liam’s parents' house?"

Louis needs to know, not least because he wants to graffiti Pretentious Hair’s posh ass car or something. (He won't, but it's a nice thought.) He just wants to know what's wrong and how to fix it. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, Harry," he says quietly, thumb stroking over Harry's sleeve.

Harry zeroes in on the contact and takes in another uneven breath. He nods his head. “Yeah, that's him," he replies. There’s an edge to his voice Louis hasn’t heard before. “I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. Why would I? That’s why I’m here, for god’s sake.” He slaps his fist against his sleek covered thigh. “But what is _he_ doing _here_? And what the fuck did he think he was doing trying to win a _date_ with me? After _everything_. I mean—” Harry shakes his head in exasperation. 

A fresh stream of salty tears trickle down his cheeks, sitting on the pavement properly now, sniffling and chest convulsing. Louis' chest feels tight as Harry wraps his arms around himself and Louis frowns worriedly, not knowing what to do except just to hold onto him. He glances at the spot on the pavement Harry is sitting on. His bum must be freezing, he thinks, so Louis takes off his blazer and lays it out on the dirty asphalt, using a hand to guide Harry upwards.

Harry buries his hands in his hair and pushes it back, tipping his head back slightly, blinking rapidly. “Shit,” he exhales. “Do you have a cigarette or something? Or something stronger?” A hint of a smile spreads across his bitten lips.

“Harry.” Louis’ brows furrow minutely, not sure chainsmoking is the best idea right now.

Harry wipes at his face, rubbing his wet eyes. Louis’ fingertips itch to wipe his tears away for him. They’re certainly fucking wasted on whomever that guy was inside. 

“I can't believe I came here to get away from all that and it’s followed me here, too.” He hiccups, voice muffled, taking his hands away from his face when Louis tugs at his elbow gently.

“Here. Sit on this,” Louis tells him.

"What?" He watches as Harry lifts his head in confusion but gradually he moves to sit on the blazer. “Oh. Are you sure? I don’t wanna dirty it up,” he sniffs, his glassy green eyes actually fucking glow, bathed in the light of the streetlamp’s, his dainty eyelashes stuck together. Louis shoves down the observation that he thinks Harry’s never looked more beautiful. Which is a superficial thought, he thinks, annoyed at himself. The poor boy is in bits.

“I'm sure it'll survive,” Louis smiles, still attempting to rub circles into Harry’s back as comfortingly as he can, tensing a bit when Harry blindly reaches out and takes Louis’ free hand, the one that’s hovering over his knee and laces their fingers together without preamble, tugging their entwined hands to him, cradling them against his chest, directly over his heart.

Louis feels a bit faint. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. Fuck, he’s so drunk? Has he been unfortunately frozen into a stone statue by the fucking Ice Queen? Except the emotions this boy is conjuring up within him are anything but cold.

They’re burning hot to the core. His hand tingles with electrical sparks, a static sensation being left where Harry’s skin is touching his, who's holding onto his hand so freely, gripping onto it like Louis is his lifeline.

Louis holds on just as tight.

“Is this okay?” Harry says after a few moments of silence.

“Yeah,” he whispers.

Harry shudders again, or is he shivering? He inhales and exhales deeply, a cloud of air between them.

“We used to be friends,” Harry starts quietly, voice hoarse. “I went to college with him, and university, too. Well, for the first few months, anyway, before I dropped out, and then I came here in September to repeat my first year. It’s why I’m a year older than I said.” Harry meets Louis’ gaze. He sighs tiredly. “That bit wasn't a big deal. I just didn’t want to be asked what I did during the last year. I'm sorry I acted so short with you over it earlier. But I saw him going inside. Well, I thought I did. And I was sure it couldn't have been him but... well. It was," he scoffs. "I know I could have just lied and said I went on a gap year or something, or had a job, anything, but I was so paranoid, so anxious that someone would realise I hadn’t done that. It was silly. Sorry.”

Louis lets out a short chuckle. “Why are you sorry? It doesn’t matter.” Louis nods for him to go on.

Harry takes another unsteady breath. “Anyway. We were close. Best friends, probably. But I um, I had a crush on him, like, from the off I think.”

Louis sees the uncertainty in Harry’s gaze and the apprehension. And Louis can’t have Harry thinking he can’t trust Louis, so he gives his hand a reassuring press and a gentle smile for him to continue with whatever Harry trusts Louis enough with to tell him.

“Well, um. I was starting to realise I liked boys, the way that everyone was telling me I should be liking girls. And I knew I was gay. The more I got to know Mikael, the clearer it got.”

“Okay,” Louis nods.

“So one night we were out together. At a house party. Um. We went upstairs. It was his idea and I thought, well, why would he be taking me upstairs alone if he only saw me as a mate? So, I made a pass at him.”

Harry sniffs again, face hardening, soft features twisting into a deep frown.

“I’d got it into my head that we were more than friends. That he liked me. In _that_ way. He’d always make these suggestive comments, stare at me a little too long to be considered platonic, you know? And so I kissed him even though I knew he was sort of seeing a girl— ” Harry sobs again, once, before he quickly schools his expression back into composure, his pale cheeks flushed rosy red from the cold, the tip of his nose pink.

Ah. Louis thinks he’s knows where this is going. 

“He’d say that he wasn’t sure who he was sometimes, touch me a certain way, and he was my closest friend at the time, so I thought... that I could trust him? I don’t know,“ Harry looks at him helplessly, shrugging.

“It’s okay,” Louis reassures him. “You thought he liked you, too. He gave you enough reason to think so by the sound of it.”

Harry looks away, sighing as he plays with his and Louis’ hands. Louis tries to not seem like he's majorly struggling to breathe correctly, focusing his attention on Harry's words.

“Well, he kissed me back at first. And I was so happy that it was happening, but then... he got so  _angry_. Defensive. Properly freaked out. He was yelling at me, saying that I’d got it so wrong. That he wasn’t _like_ me. I was so humiliated, I ran. I guess when I was at the party with you, and I saw him there, it just brought it back? Anyway, a couple of days later, in my afternoon lecture, I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. Whispering. Staring.”

Louis wants to go back inside and tell this prick where to go. His blood boils at anyone treating Harry in a way that he doesn’t deserve. “He told everyone, I gather?”

Harry nods, eyes filling up again when he looks up at Louis. His heart clenches at Harry’s face and he clutches tighter to Harry’s hand.  

“He did these poetry readings after class sometimes.” Louis resists the urge to make a noise of disbelief. “I was there with a friend and he got up like usual, after ignoring me for days, and started reading out this really obvious poem that was about me,” Harry puffs out a breath, resigned, shaking his head. "Really unflattering and with underlying homophobia in it, obviously. He stared straight at me, and everyone started to catch on."

Louis finds that he’s gripping Harry’s hand tighter, his face forming into a furious scowl.

"What a piece of shit," Louis mutters.

“He was in every one of my classes,” he goes on. “Every single one of my seminars. I started to develop anxiety about attending them, and I’d get panic attacks before I had to be at one. There was only like of eight of us on a good day, all sat around tables facing each other. It was so claustrophobic and he was _there_ , and I just couldn’t be in the same room as him. I just couldn't. And he must have been spreading things about me because people... they were so _mean_? I don’t know what he’d been telling them but it can’t have been good,” he breathes, eyes downcast. “And I’d kinda kept myself to Mikael for so long, that I didn’t have a lot of other friends. I just felt so alone. And I cared what they thought, was the thing. I cared what they thought about me.” Harry chews on his lip, blood red and quivering slightly. “I always care _too_ much.”

He pauses to wipe at his eyes, his brows deeply furrowed once more, eyes dark. Louis continues to listen, his thumb brushing the back of Harry’s cold hand, anger and sadness for the other boy swirling in his gut.

“Everyone was listening to rumours, gossiping about me and my anxiety was getting worse. I could barely breathe some days, and it felt like they just wouldn’t stop staring, everywhere I went around campus. I felt like I was trapped. That he was always watching me. He completely cut me off, and I—I couldn’t stay there,” he whispers. “Not for three years. I didn’t even know who I was yet, and I couldn’t do it with everyone watching my every move. If I so much as looked at a guy, they would immediately assume I was sleeping with him. And the girl he was seeing, even though he’d been cheating on her all the time, all her friends started calling me stuff and I just couldn’t deal with it. So, I dropped out as soon as I could. Luckily it was before the cut off date and I applied to come here in September. Start over. Fresh.”

Harry’s brushes his knuckles against his nose, more composed. “Their art department was pretty shit, anyway," he says after a few beats of silence, Louis still clutching onto him with cold hands. "It's miles better here." He smiles, small, looking at Louis.

This boy. With his reddened nose, and his big eyes. 

A cloud of red mist passes over Louis, at everyone who treated his boy like that. Honestly, where did those kids get off behaving like that? Making Harry feel like he couldn't be himself? 

_But Harry’s not your boy._

The reminder pangs at his chest.

Harry shakes his head, exhaling bitterly. “All that because of one stupid kiss. And it wasn’t even that good," he rumbles.

Louis' eyes slide back to Harry, hunched up and small, tear tracks visible in his flushed cheeks, the green of his eyes bright but at the same time dulled, filled to the brim with sadness and unwarranted shame.

“You’re a much, much better kisser,” Harry smiles faintly, a hint of impishness back. "Just so you know."

Louis splutters out a laugh. “Shut up,” he whispers, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s eyes fall shut, nosing softly at Louis' cheek. Louis almost chokes on his heart. "But you can't say you haven't had plenty of practice with me," he says wryly. 

Harry smirks faintly.

Poor Harry, with his sleek curls in his eyes, and the endearing way he pops his jacket collar up, and his huge heart. He may be dressed like a confident, indie rocker but he’s an anxious, guarded, hurt young boy underneath. Louis’ aches for him. He just wants to wrap his arms around him and hold him close always and tell him that no one should ever make him feel like he’s not allowed to be who he is. That the way he is now, no matter who he fancies, no matter what he likes, is enough. More than enough. As it should be.

“It wasn’t their business. It was between me and him, but he just had to broadcast it like it was juicy gossip and not a piece of who I am. And then in there? What was he doing, Louis? Why won’t he just leave me alone?” 

Harry’s hands are still gripping Louis’ as he watches him carefully. Louis chews on his lip, downturned.

“Has he tried to contact you since?” he wonders, frowning.

Harry shifts on the pavement, staring down at their joined hands. His fingers are ice blocks, and both of their noses and cheeks are now red from the cold. If they're out here in any longer, they'll be frozen together.

“Um, yeah," he mumbles reluctantly. "About a month before I enrolled, he sent me a DM on social media.”

“What was the point of that?”

“He asked if we could talk,” Harry shrugs.

“Well, if it was to apologise, he didn’t look too fucking apologetic in there, mate. More like a smug bastard at getting a higher bid in, at making you squirm. Prick.”

“As long as he stays away from me, I don’t really care what he wants," Harry says, shaking his head.

“Well, good, because he won’t be getting it,” Louis shoots back firmly.

Harry meets his eyes, his pupils blown, yet his face is quiet. He sniffles, inching closer so that their thighs are pressed flush against each other.

"What?" Louis hums.

“It’s just that," he starts, looking back down at his lap, "it's hard enough finding the guts to tell someone your feelings, you know? To tell them how you really feel? It might be easy for some people, but it’s not for me. And like, after that... I guess I just—I became a lot more careful? A bit more cautious about who I get to know, about how far I’m willing to go...”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” Louis assures, pulling Harry closer to him, nudging his arm with his.

“My mum said I used to wear my heart on my sleeve. And I liked someone, so I did something about it, about how I felt, because I was... more confident then I guess, and they just...well, my feelings just got thrown right back in my face in the worst way.” Harry visibly swallows, glancing up from where he was staring at the pavement. His eyes connect with Louis’, so big and round and shimmering in the streetlight.

And Louis gets it. He does. Telling someone your real feelings sometimes feels impossible. God, Louis feels so wistful right now.

“And then with everything that was going on at home, too...” he trails off, pointedly closing his mouth, sad, eyes staring to brim with moisture again. "It was all building up and it just wasn't a fun time."

Louis hums, wanting to ask about it, but it seems like Harry only wants to talk about this for now. He doesn’t want to push it, anyway.

“I guess that’s why—I don’t really want to start dating yet?"

Louis ignores the drop in his stomach.

"I’m scared that if I really like someone... I‘m worried I’ll get hurt again and I’ll probably be paranoid the whole time, wondering whether it’s really genuine or if it’s a joke.” He sighs shakily. “God. That sounds so pathetic to say. It’s stupid, isn’t it?” Harry laughs humourlessly. A puff of cold air is all it is really.

“No, no. Of course it’s not stupid, Harry,” Louis insists, trying to shove away the disappointment he feels, his heart focusing on the ‘if’ of that sentence.

This isn't about him.

Harry’s not ready for a relationship. For good reason. But he told him before, too. He knows this, and yet he can't stop obsessing over the idea. Of what he can't have.

Now’s not the time for him to be feeling shit about wanting Harry to like him back, though. God, he needs to shut his feelings off for just five minutes for once. Why can't he do that?

“I just worry about things. All the time. Analyse what could go wrong in any situation I’m not comfortable with, you know? However unlikely those scenarios are. It's silly.”

“That’s not silly,” Louis says, voice soft. “That’s called anxiety. Okay? You’re a bit more careful now, that’s all. Wary. You’ve lost your confidence a bit. It’s hard to trust people sometimes, I know. And after that, who can blame you?” Louis brings Harry’s body forwards, curls into his chest, encompassing him in a bear hug, limbs clutching this shivering boy, planting his nose into his hair.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” Harry says tiredly.

“Stop that,” Louis says kindly. “You’re wonderful, you know? You're so wonderful exactly the way you are, Harry. There’s nothing wrong with you, alright? You’re amazing and smart and funny. And you make a fantastic cup of tea.” Harry snorts. “You're you. And don’t you ever let anyone make you feel like you’re less than them. Okay? And if they still manage to do that, come to me and I will gladly kick them in the balls for you. Hard. I’ll go back in there and do it to that twat right now if you want. Just say the word."

Harry releases an easy laugh and then his own long arms are wrapping around Louis' waist, burying his face in Louis’ neck and exhaling a drawn out breath that makes Louis shiver, his eyelashes tickling at Louis’ skin.

“You’re so... you're the best, Louis,” he says, muffled into Louis’ neck. “I’m so thankful I met you here,” he smiles, leans back a tad to look at him, eyes glassy and red-rimmed.

“I’m pretty spectacular, I know. There’s no need to remind me,” he jokes weakly.

“Stop,” Harry laughs again, this time more brash, louder, and Louis breathes out a sigh of relief, loosening his hold, and pulling slightly back.

"But all I did was listen," he says a little sadly.

“But I needed that. I needed you to. So thank you. You’re a good—“ Harry hesitates. “You’re a good person, Louis,” he settles on. “You’re so, like, brilliant,” he chuckles, shy, ducking his head slightly, squared front teeth denting his bottom lip. 

Louis smiles, if a bit interested as to why he didn’t just say _friend_ , like he thought he was going to. But then their eyes meet and they’re just looking at each other. Harry reattaches his hand with Louis’, dropping them back into his lap. The clouds of their breath mingling together in the icy chill and the amber glow of the streetlamps casts their faces in lit shadows, all while Louis’ heart is beating double the normal rate.

Because he just can’t stop  _looking_ at him.

“That was a bit of a meltdown,” Harry whispers. "I feel a bit embarrassed now."

“Don’t be,” Louis lilts. “There’s no need to be, okay? It’s only me, and there’s no shame in being honest and vulnerable either, Harry. Cry as much as you want. Whenever you want. Snot all over my shirt, I don’t care.”

Harry releases a small giggle, inching subtly closer, his eyes sticking to Louis’ own.

Christ. Louis’ throat feels tight. At this point, fucking butterflies are going to swoop out from his mouth, he’s that nervous. For what, Louis doesn’t want to assume, but when Harry seems to have moved even closer to him, his face mere inches away, it’s not that much of a stretch to wonder if Harry is about to kiss him again, is it?

When he’s close enough that Louis can feel the soft caress of his warm, vodka laced breath on the skin between his nose and upper lip, close enough that he can see the outline of a small white scar on his chin, close enough that he can make out the tiny freckles on his cheeks.

There’s a humming, vibrating energy between them, loud and quiet all at once. Or perhaps it’s just the cold and Louis’ alcohol infused mind.

Harry’s eyes are intense and green, and then plump lips brush a faint kiss over Louis’ parted mouth.

It’s over before Louis can kiss back, and Harry hides his face in Louis’ chest.

“Will you walk me home?” he says, muffled in Louis’ shirt.

“Of course I will, mate,” Louis murmurs, voice tinged with care and probably far too obvious fondness. “We’ve got a date to go on, haven’t we?” He nudges him and Harry smiles, eyes brimming with warmth. Louis stares a beat longer than necessary and stands, taking Harry up with him by his hands, the chill of the air decidedly not that cold anymore. Not now that his fingers are tangled with Harry’s, not intending on letting go.

**

When they got back to halls, Louis coaxed Harry to sit down in the kitchen and made him a tea, (as he seems to be doing a lot of that lately) which the other boy gulped down at an impressive speed. Louis sat opposite him, staring at the way his throat worked like a weirdo, probably. Because after Harry’s emotional unloading about his past, all Louis wanted to do was soothe him and comfort him, and run his hands through his hair until his eyes fluttered shut, and give him too many tight cuddles and make sure he was fully hydrated. 

And Louis did, transforming into a neurotic mother hen, showering Harry in likely overbearing affection and shooting constant questions at him. Just to make sure.

He just wanted Harry to feel better. And he was going to do whatever it took to make that happen.

“Are you hungry?” he kept asking obsessively. “Although, I’ll be honest, I can do you beans on toast or cheese on toast, or any variation of something on toast, but that’s about it.” Harry smiled, amused.“Oh, have you had enough water today? Are you warm enough?”

He eyed Harry’s bare feet, which frankly looked like they had six toes on each foot, but Louis decided he would defend those long ass extra toes with his last breath. (There was a slight chance Louis was running on an adrenaline high and a shit ton of champagne.)

Harry laughed softly, red-rimmed eyes pooling with affection and shook his head. But he did ask for another tea, which Louis made for him, of course, and hugged him with an arm around his chest, resting his chin atop Harry’s head as he rubbed circles over his heart.

“Um, Lou?”

“Yes, Harry?” Louis sighed (a tad dreamily), content to feel the steady thud of Harry’s heartbeat beneath the comforting warmth of his shirt. 

“It’s just, it’s a little hard to drink my tea properly?” he smiled up at him.

Louis had an overwhelming urge to kiss Harry’s nose.

“Oh, sorry, love.”

_Love._

Louis froze, but he needn’t have bothered because Harry positively preened at him, beaming from ear to ear as Louis took the seat directly opposite where he sat at the kitchen table. It was fast becoming their spot.

He was just so wonderful.

Why’d he have to go and like someone who wasn’t likely to want what he wanted? At least not now. Or anytime soon. He inwardly groaned at Harry’s rosy red mouth, all shiny and swollen, and god, Louis just wanted to lean forward and kiss him, never in a mood where he’s not wanting to kiss him.

It was becoming a problem.

Harry popped into his own room after a while and changed into a t-shirt and a comfy pair of grey joggers that sat just right, low on his hips, (torturing Louis even more) took a quick trip to the loo (“The tea has gone right through me, Lou”) and then Louis took Harry’s hand in his, (which Harry seemed highly overjoyed by) gripping Louis’ hand back in a firm grasp and smiling down at him, completely absorbed in Louis’ every move, pleased as punch as Louis led him to his room.

And now the two of them have settled down on Louis’ bed, both of them leaning against the wall, thighs pressed together, side by side and pinkies not-so-accidentally brushing on Louis’ part.

“Right, so what film do you want to watch?” Louis asks, glancing at the time on his phone. It’s not even eleven yet and everyone else is seemingly out. He crawls off the bed and changes into another pair of socks, pulling on the hem of his t-shirt as he switches off the main light with his free hand. He turns on the dim lamp sitting on his desk and the fairy lights, too, strung precariously around the shelves above his bed.

He finds Harry already staring at them as he answers, “Whatever you want is fine,” he murmurs, tone dazed.

“ _How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days_ , it is then,” Louis jokes, passing Harry a bottle of water.

“Yay,” Harry drawls sarcastically as he takes it.

“Little shit,” Louis mutters. “Do you have no taste!” Harry snorts. “ _Breaking Bad_ , then?”

“No thanks,” Harry grimaces. “Too heavy. Something a bit lighter, please?”

Louis winces, before he’s trying to ward off the red mist that’s crept back into his bloodstream at a rapid pace. “Oh, yeah. Sorry, Harry.” 

“Why are you sorry?” Harry says softly. Louis shrugs, fiddling with a loose thread of cotton from his t-shirt. “Come sit back here.” He pats the bed.

“I’ll just shove  _Friends_  on. Easier,” Louis says distractedly, popping the nearest disc that he can find into his laptop and rests it atop his desk, aiming it towards the angle they’re sitting on the bed. “I usually watch it before bed, anyway. Or least I did, before you came along.” He playfully narrows his eyes at Harry, who merely smiles, giving the bed another pat. A wordless plea to settle next to him.

Oh, god.

As soon as Louis joins him, Harry is already snuggling into his side, his left fist scrunching up in Louis’ t-shirt, cushioning his head in the crease of Louis’ armpit. So Louis lifts his arm and settles it around Harry’s shoulder, not missing the small, pleased smile that curves Harry’s lips.

“Louis,” he says quietly, just after the  _Friends_  theme tune ends.

Louis hurriedly clicks down on the volume, taking a breath to calm down but his body betrays him by instinctively leaning into Harry, feeling steadied by his warmth somehow. Enveloped by it.

He feels more and more anchored by Harry the longer he spends time with him. He finds himself cataloguing all the tiny details, like the way a stray curl will fall to the left of his forehead, the way he nudges his nose with his knuckles when he’s got an itch, when his lips are in a resting position and look as pink as rosebuds.

There’s a tightness that coils in his lower belly, his chest feeling restrictive and at the same time lighter. A calm sense of familiarity and excitement washes over him whenever he’s close to the other boy, filling up his cells.

And he has no idea how to deal with these feelings. It’s a bit of a shock to the system if he’s honest. He has this inexplicable need to be closer to Harry at all times. To hold his hand. To brush his hair from his eyes. To kiss his nose, for god’s sake.

But then he has had a  _lot_  of champagne tonight. Probably too much. It’s a lethal combination. Harry and champagne. They’re both fizzy and sweet and bubbly and make your insides feel ten times giddier, making it hard to just be still.

Harry is looking up at him now, eyes wide with something like nervous energy buzzing through him. He moves his pale hand from his chest slowly, watching Louis’ face, and places it on his inner thigh.

Louis exhales shakily, Harry’s fingers squeezing slightly.

Louis’ heart is thudding inside throat, rather than inside his chest at this point.

Because is Harry hinting about staying the night? Properly? They haven’t slept in the same bed  _all night_ _long_ since the Eighties party at Liam’s house.

The night that started all this.

Oh, god. Louis wants to. But he can’t let Harry stay the night? Not while Harry’s got a shit load of alcohol in his system and he’s vulnerable and likely still upset about tonight’s events. He’ll only regret it in the morning, won’t he?

The last thing Louis wants to do is to hurt him or mess with his head further. Louis can’t guarantee that where his own head is right now, even if he has been feeling much better about stuff and has been getting more sleep lately.

Because now most of his problems stem from his feelings for Harry.

Because they’re pointless. He won’t get what he really wants out of this, but he wants it anyway. Maybe having bits of Harry is much better than having nothing at all.

But still. He should be sending him away now, back to his own room to sleep in his own bed before the mood _changes_. And well, it’s for the best, right?

He shouldn’t let him stay.  _It’s what’s best_ , he silently tells himself on a mantra, all while Harry’s staring at him, looking at Louis like he’s an answer once more. But wasn't Louis doing the exact same thing? He wanted Harry to make him forget how shitty he feels sometimes. Craved that slice of carefree, straightforward pleasure he was desperate to find and cling onto. For a while, at least.

“Harry—” he starts, his tone wary.

Harry’s brows knit minutely, his hand clutching his leg imperceptibly tighter.

“Maybe you should just get some sleep now, eh? In  _your_  room, yeah? It’s been a lot tonight,” he says gently, brushing his arm but knowing his body his _aching_ for Harry. Quite literally. He would have him now if he could. And it’s looking like he can. But Louis’ never been one of those people who thought about one night stands.

Only staying with someone when you’ve had them in the most intimate way, for _one_ night? Just the one time? It’s kind of incomprehensible to Louis, though he’d never admit that to his friends.

He just doesn’t think it’s him.

And that’s definitely not what he wants with Harry.

If he sleeps with Harry, if they have sex, Louis knows not so deep down, that he’ll want it again. And again.

He’ll be kind of screwed.

Yeah, he can’t do it.

“Anyway, you snore like a gorilla who’s had too many pints so... go on. Scram, Curly Boy. I need my beauty sleep. I’m sick of the sight of you,” he says softly. His eyes probably look like gooey hearts.

Harry looks at him for a moment, face unreadable. “I do not snore like a gorilla,” he chuckles with an affronted brow, shaking his head, seeming far more alert and chipper than he’d been earlier which is something.

“One that’s had too many pints. Don’t forget that bit.”

Harry makes an amused sound, eyes still a little red-rimmed, but the stark green of his eyes, flecked with amber gold is back and gleaming. His cheeks are dusted with a faint pink blotchiness, his brown curls fluffy and mussed, and his quiff long since deflated.

He’s the prettiest thing Louis’ ever bestowed his eyes upon.

Louis swallows down the urge to kiss him again, trying to appear less miserably forlorn and more—well, not  _this_.

“Alright. Yeah. I’ll call it a night, then,” Harry mumbles slowly, sitting upright and making a show of being unhurried about it, too. Louis furrows his brows. “I’ll have to keep myself warm tonight, won’t I?” he says casually. His eyes lock with Louis’ as he deliberately brushes his knuckles against the top of Louis’ thigh, keeping their gazes connected. “Since you’re turning me down for cuddles,” he bemoans, making an unimpressed pouty face. 

If that touch was meant to come across as accidental, Harry is not subtle. At all. But then Louis really isn’t either. Oh, fuck. He can literally feel himself caving in. He’s so bloody weak.

It seems like Harry can, too, because he smirks as he stands up, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt and stretching, a slither of his pale love handles on display.

Fuck. He _is_  so weak. Because before Louis’ brain can whip out a PowerPoint slide of all the reasons why he shouldn’t sleep with Harry tonight, his hand encircles Harry’s wrist. The other boy jolts as he snaps his head down to look at him, eyes widening.

Louis holds his surprised stare, their hands attached.

So weak.

“Okay,” Louis breathes.

Because he just can’t say no. Maybe it’s selfish, but he needs this one time. Just once. Maybe then he’ll be out of his system?

 _Harry_ will be out of his system.

“Okay, what?”

“Why don’t we both call it a night?” Louis murmurs up at him, neck exposed as his throat bobs on a thick swallow. His stomach does a giddy flip-flop motion when Harry’s eyes fall to it, lingering there, pupils darkening rapidly.

“Yeah?”

It was just going to be cuddling again. That’s what Louis told himself in the split second it took to grab Harry’s wrist.

But of course it's not going to be.

It’s never just cuddling to Louis. He cares about Harry. And this is so much more to him than what they agreed it would be, as stupid and as pointless as it is to get so attached. But it’s a bit bloody late for that. The attachment has been formed, and Louis’ going to drown.

But right now, Louis really doesn’t care.

He wants to drown.

“Yeah,” Louis affirms evenly, eyes holding Harry’s gaze fixedly.

After a few more seconds of intense staring, Harry surprises him still, by making the next bold move. Though Louis shouldn’t be surprised, since Harry has pretty much initiated all of their encounters so far.

Harry takes a shaky breath. This time it's a lust driven breath, one of anticipation and desire if he feels anything like Louis does in this moment, and in one swift movement he deposits himself into Louis’ lap. Louis’ hands instantly settle upon the other boy’s hips, his legs straddling him, knobbly knees pressing into the sides of Louis’ thighs.

Harry's determined hands come up to rest atop Louis' shoulders, his fingers lightly dragging across Louis’ left shoulder, the loose t-shirt that’s draped over him on a slanted angle revealing part of the dip of his bare collarbone. Harry stares at the spot for what feels like forever, Louis’ laboured breathing suspended as he waits for Harry to do _something._

Finally, he does. Harry stretches the grey fabric and exposes his collarbone further before he’s pressing his glorious mouth with wet lips, lightly scraping his teeth and mouthing at his skin, setting every one of Louis’ nerve endings alight.

Fuck, it feels like he’s blazing, skin itchy with want.

Louis instinctively lifts and rotates his shoulder on a shiver, turning his face to the side, pliant under Harry’s touch. His eyes flutter closed at the maddening sensation, lost in the static haze of Harry’s mouth sending tingles shuddering through his upper body.

Louis breathes out, lolling his head against the wall. He feels Harry press another kiss to his neck, sucking at it a bit, pressing one more lingering kiss to his cheek.

“Harry?” he breathes, biting his lip, hands squeezing at Harry’s soft sides. “What are you—”                  

“Shhh,” Harry soothes, cutting him off with a trail of more insistent kisses being peppered along the column of his neck and a very purposeful rub of Harry’s hard crotch grinding over his own, the younger boy’s joggers noticeably tented out already.

Jesus Christ.

It spurs Louis into action, knowing Harry’s this affected by him, his hands moving to grip at his bum. Harry exhales at the contact, hot breath laced with vodka and citrus softly caressing Louis’ face, before Harry tilts his head and leans in to slide their lips smoothly together, slotting easily.

It’s soft and so careful at first, despite Harry’s hands fisting the hem of Louis’ t-shirt carelessly, tugging the material to him between their bodies, needy and impatient.

But the longer their lips touch, Louis feels complete relief, some combination of comfort, safety, affection and lust all rolled into one perfect, all-consuming thing, wrapped tightly with a sleek ribbon bow and tucked inside a huge gift box that only reveals  _more_ when you tear off each layer of wrapping paper.

And he’s talking absolute shit. What on earth is Louis going on about? He’s sex hazy before they’ve even got to the sex part.

It’s just... he wants more of this, more of everything, anything Harry wants to give.

“Shit, Harry,” Louis whimpers breathily, head somewhere high up in the fucking clouds, ten feet off the ground and struggling to stay anchored to something solid, craving and need coursing through his body in incoming waves, the kiss growing rougher as their hands become more insistent.   

Harry just moans back, gripping his head impossibly closer, scrunching his fingers amongst his hair, messing it up completely. And he wants him to. To mess him up so that he looks royally fucked out.

Their kisses quickly turn more heated as Harry begins to deepen them, tongue slipping inside Louis’ mouth, moaning softly into it. They meet again, and again, their heads tilting and moving in opposite angles, both of them trying to deepen the kisses further, licking into each other’s mouths and biting gently.

They suck until their lips are swollen and puffy, until they’re merely just panting into each other mouths rather than kissing anymore, growing steadily more worked up. Just hands cupping faces, teeth scraping, tongues swiping over each other’s reddened lips.

Harry pulls away first, breathless and seemingly fascinated with Louis’ bottom lip as he thumbs over it. Louis noses at his blotchy pink cheek, searing their mouths together again, his hands roaming fervently over Harry’s back, fingers occasionally tugging at the stretchy fabric, sliding under his t-shirt and up and down his smooth back, Harry arching into his touch.

“Can we?” he hums, his crotch pressing into Louis’ belly as he leans up slightly. He can feel how hard he is and Louis’ most definitely going to faint upright.

“Can we what, Harry?”

“You know what.” Harry gazes down at him, eyes huge and dilated.

Louis bites down a moan as Harry shifts in his lap, obviously realising Louis is halfway to fully hard as well. And Louis is very aware that he wants things to go further.

But it’s still a bit of a shock when Harry abruptly shoves his joggers down over his bum, sprightly fingers getting caught in the fabric is his haste. Louis helps him pull them down to his calves before Harry’s settling his weight back against Louis’ groin purposefully.

A high-pitched whine slips out from Louis’ mouth and Harry swoops down to swallow it like a bloody bird, their mouths meeting messily.

Louis pushes Harry’s bum harder against him, urging him to drag himself over Louis’ hard length and grind. “Fuck,” he winces. “Oh. Fuck, Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes over his wet lips, clasping the back of Louis’ neck with his clammy palm. “Want you to fuck me.”

Louis pauses in fucking disbelief at Harry’s unabashed bluntness. All inhibitions have flown out the window and it’s just him and Harry and unfiltered desire between them. He blinks back at him, mouth agape and slick with spit. “Fuck,” Louis groans into another kiss.

“S’ what I just said,” Harry quips, breathing faster.

“Hang on,” Louis says, stopping Harry’s wandering hand as it presses over his joggers. “Just how drunk are you?”

“Not that much anymore. I know what I’m doing, okay? I promise. You don’t have to worry.” Harry finds his eyes, stroking his face.

He kisses him softly.

“Wait," Louis pulls back. "Um, have you done this before?”

Harry’s exhale tickles Louis’ chin as he shakes his head slowly. “Not like _this_.”

Louis blinks. He might pass out. “Are you sure?” He tilts his head, voice gentle as to not scare away the cute kitten in his lap and to be clear Harry isn’t doing this for another reason. Say, because he’s upset. “You’re sure that you want to do this? With  _me_?” he tacks on, just to be certain.

Harry stares at him, face open and eyes glossy. “ _Yes._ With _you._ ”

For a moment, Louis can pretend he means it in another way. Because apparently he’s a sadist like that. “Okay,” he whispers.

Their eyes lock.

“Touch me,” Harry instructs, his pupils dark saucers, fastened intently to Louis’. He resolutely guides Louis’ hands to settle on his waist, slipping them underneath his t-shirt with determined confidence, his lips dragging across Louis’ mouth with purpose.

Louis’ fingertips knead at the softness of his hips, mesmerised by the way Harry’s teeth sink into his swollen bottom lip, now mouth-wateringly cherry red.

He tugs Harry as close to him as he can get, surrendering himself to every impulse and need he’s tried to ignore since that night at Liam’s house party, grasping his sides in an almost bruising grip and pushing Harry downwards into his lap. The increased pressure causes Harry’s breath to catch, prompting his bum to start rocking back and forth over Louis’ dizzyingly thickening cock, his boxer shorts already noticeably wet, using Harry’s waist for leverage as he bucks his hips up to meet him in a more energetic pace, their bodies moving together.

He breathes out a long breath, disturbing the stray curls at Harry’s pale neck, and holy god, this is fucking heavenly.

He must say that last bit out loud, because Harry starts chuckling, breathily, as he moves against him, his fingers digging into Louis’ shoulders and then sliding into his hair.

And Louis wanted something to keep him occupied, didn’t he? A distraction from the misery that floors him as soon as he feels better?

Well, this is one hell of a colossal fucking distraction.

One Louis is steadily growing addicted to the longer he licks into Harry’s hot mouth, bodies pushing and pulling in jerky, fervent movements like the wrong ends of magnets.

This feels anything but wrong, though, waves of shuddering pleasure spiralling through his body with every persistent grind of Harry against the thigh he’s lodged between them, shifting Harry in his lap.

There’s absolutely nothing forced about the way they’re reacting to each other’s needy, resolute hands, or how they’re responding to the firm glides of their hips meeting, their mouths fighting to stay attached for as long as possible, or the whimpering sounds and pants that they can’t stop from slipping easily from their bitten lips.

Louis latches his mouth onto the unblemished skin of Harry’s neck, a spot under his sharp jaw line and sucks enthusiastically. Harry tips his head back and bares his neck to present Louis with much better access, softly whimpering as his hands scrunch up his hair. Louis’ own hands are in a tight hold on his narrow waist, fingers squeezing the slight, glorious pudge of his love handles. He bites at the flesh, soothing the mark with his tongue. It only takes a couple more grinds of their hips and then Harry's gasping into Louis’ neck as he comes.

Harry squirms after a few laboured breaths, suddenly raising himself on his knees as he pulls his joggers right down to his ankles and shoves them off completely, disregarding them on the floor, his attention instantly back on Louis when he’s done.

His hands cup his face. “Fuck me, Louis,” he says, breathless and desperate, nudging their noses together sweetly in an Eskimo kiss. “Please.”

Louis’ heart almost gives out at the gentleness of the gesture. He just nods wordlessly and slips off his t-shirt, Harry immediately following suit as he reaches for the hem of his own, dragging it upwards and off in one quick swoop.

And, god, he’s so beautiful, Louis can’t believe he’s here with Harry in his arms.

Their eyes drink in each other’s exposed skin, and for one stupid moment, ‘Hungry Eyes’ pops into Louis’ head because he’s a corny, infatuated bastard, (Lord, someone help him) impatient hands feeling over the shape of each other’s bodies with their desire-driven stares, indisputable want sending surges of pulsing heat straight to Louis’ groin.

“You’re so gorgeous, so fucking lovely,” Louis whispers, as he drags his thumb over Harry’s open, slightly dazed mouth before his lips meet his once more, his breathing ragged. Louis sucks on his lips hard, like he means to bruise them, every lick of Harry’s tongue a craving that Louis needs to feed, to chase, but it’s still not enough.

It seems Harry is done waiting too, though, because his nimble fingers are now speedily unzipping Louis’ jeans, tugging hard at the button and his waistband. Louis lets go of Harry temporarily to get them off and it’s fucked up how much he wants his body back on his this second.

They settle back down, naked on Louis’ bed. Louis sitting against the wall with Harry straddling him. Louis vaguely registers the faint glow of the fairy lights hung around his shelves, before Harry’s cupping his face again with both hands, just looking at him, thumbs stoking underneath his eyes.

Harry’s always looking at him, isn’t he?

Louis looks back, before he reaches for the lube and slicks up two of his fingers generously, tracing over Harry’s entrance, teasing over the wet puckered skin.

“Gonna open you up now, okay?” Louis murmurs, mouth dry.

Harry nods quickly, licking his lips, forehead a little sweaty. Louis’ about to ask if he wants to lie down on his belly when Harry spreads his legs apart and stands on his knees, hands clasped on each of Louis’ shoulders.

“You want it like this?”

“Uh, uh,” Harry breathes, green eyes locked on Louis’ face.

Louis opens him up slowly, watching Harry’s face carefully for any signs of discomfort, pushing in with one steady, languid finger, stroking inside him and brushing against his hot, tight walls until the urgency and the need comes hurtling back, Harry getting more and more worked up as he starts to push down eagerly on Louis’ fingers.

“More. I need more, Lou,” Harry moans into his collarbone, hugging Louis’ body to him, arms wrapped around Louis’ shoulders, his free hand resting on the small of Harry’s back, whose open mouth is buried in Louis’ hair, his chin resting against Louis’ heated cheek.

“I didn’t think—I didn’t think you wanted to—” Louis’ unfiltered brain can’t help but say as he drives another finger in beside the first, pumping faster.

Harry whines, still squirming back down and shifting his hips, his legs unsteady and thighs trembling, coming out in goosebumps. “I—all I know is—“ Harry moans again. “Right now... I want _this_. Now, come on. Enough talking, more doing.” His nails dig themselves into Louis’ back in warning.

A stuttered laugh escapes Louis’ throat, and he continues to work him open, deciding not to press for more and just be happy this is happening at all.

“Okay, enough,” Harry pants after a few more minutes. “Want you in me,” he presses, his intense gaze settling on Louis, and then he’s kissing along his jaw line messily, holding his chin in place.

“Yeah, I can do that,” Louis gazes up at him, Harry’s fingers curled around his jaw like he’s _his_. “Lie down, then, babe.”

“No.” Harry shakes his head and Louis momentarily freezes.

"What?” Louis blinks.

“I wanna ride you. Let’s stay like this.”

“Aren’t your poor, knobbly knees tired yet?” Louis laughs. “You sure you don’t want to lie down? Might feel better?”

Harry smirks, dimples making a much cherished appearance. “I like the pain,” he breathes hoarsely, cupping Louis’ face and kissing the spot by his ear.

“I see,” Louis grins, wiping his fingers on his duvet and running his hands up Harry’s smooth sides. “Well, I’m sorry, but I’m going to make sure you don’t even feel a wince of it.”

Harry makes a soft sound, and then he’s bending over the bed, reaching inside the pocket of his joggers on the floor and pulls out a condom.

“What the fuck?” 

Harry bites his lip sheepishly.

“Did you come here expecting sex, Harry Styles?” Louis puts his hands on his hips, feigning shock. He is a bit shocked, to be honest. He really wasn’t sure if they’d get to this part.

“What if I did?”

“I’d say you’re a cheeky devil, that you were that confident you would be.”

“It’s happening now, isn’t it?” Harry smiles, all coquettish eyes and pink blotchy cheeks.

“Could still put a stop to it,” Louis teases, tilting his head.

“I don’t think you would,” Harry smirks, the condom ready in his hand. He slides it on for Louis, giving the base a quick squeeze and shoots him another elated smirk, eyes practically sparkling like fucking bubbles fizzing in a champagne glass in the dim, warmly bathed light of Louis’ room. Louis is mesmerised.

“Wait, shit, we should close the—” Louis gasps harshly as a burst of heat encompasses his cock’s head, moving all the way down before Harry blinks prettily up at him, a smidgen of saliva dribbling down his chin, “blinds!”

Harry pops off, kissing the head wetly, still running his fingers along the shaft.

“Leave ‘em. I don’t care,” he grins, laughing into his mouth as he lubes up Louis’ cock and takes it into his palm, already guiding the head to his entrance. “It’s not like anyone can see a lot. And even if they do,” he drops another kiss to Louis’ jaw, “I don’t really give a fuck.”

Louis releases a brief laugh of surprise. “Jesus, Harry. Have you got an exhibitionist kink or something?”

Harry doesn’t answer though, effectively cutting off Louis as his head pushes past Harry’s rim, sinking down very slowly. And he’s so tight still, his walls dizzily hot around him, Louis stretching him open as Harry takes him down inch by inch.

Louis clutches Harry’s sides, guiding him down gently. “Are you okay?” he asks him, watching Harry’s brows pinch tightly, his eyes closed and mouth slightly agape. “Harry?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” Harry says, voice a bit strained, clenching around Louis when he’s properly seated with an aborted moan.

“Oh, Jesus,” Louis says loudly, a bit hysterically, and Harry’s moan half turns into a stuttered laugh. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he pants, slapping his hands around the younger boy’s waist in a vice like grip. “Fuck, you feel amazing.”

Harry starts to move carefully, raising his bum and then dropping back down again, rocking backwards and forwards with a steady rhythm, punching the air out of Louis’ lungs, not just because he’s rocking onto him so well, but because Harry’s intense eye contact is causing Louis to teeter dangerously and embarrassingly (because shit, the way Harry is staring at him is the fucking epitome of the phrase ‘bedroom eyes’) close to the edge already as the boy above him gathers up a solid pace of bounces.

“Feel good?”

“Oh. Yeah—yes. Feels so good. Fuck,” Harry breathes, finally breaking his gaze from Louis (which, thank fuck. Now Louis can concentrate on not coming in ten seconds flat), expertly swivelling his hips on Louis’ cock in a absolutely dizzying motion that’s got Louis panting harshly around him.

He watches Harry screw his eyes shut tightly, listening to the string of breathy moans that slip past Harry’s crimson lips, his hands dragging and pushing at Louis’ chest, fingers catching on his stiff nipples, to which Louis hisses at sharply.

Harry opens his eyes then. “Sensitive?”

“A bit,” Louis breathes, eyes falling shut, hands guiding Harry’s arse cheeks up and down, pumping his own hips up in an even, unhurried rhythm.

Of course Harry takes this as his fucking cue to close his obscene mouth around one of his nipples and sucks heartily, nipping at his skin as he drags his mouth back up and bites at his collarbones. Louis retaliates by sucking on one of Harry’s earlobes, grazing his teeth against the shell of his ear and then moving to one of Harry’s perky, hard nipples himself, swirling his tongue around the bud.

Harry moans deeply, burying his face in Louis’ sweaty neck. “I’ve wanted this for ages,” he breathes as he raises himself.

“Me too. Fuck. You have no idea,” Louis pants as he thrusts up into him.

Harry gasps, mouth hanging open, writhing and twisting his hips, before Louis pushes himself off from leaning his back against the wall, almost taking his band posters with him, (he can’t say he’d be too fussed if he manages to tear his Beckham poster in half when he’s got Harry’s clammy body squirming and grinding vigorously on top of him) as he pulls them both down flat onto his bed, Louis’ head at the end of it.

It almost feels like a fever dream.

He fucking hopes it isn’t.

“Stealthy,” Harry murmurs as Louis slips out of him, Harry falling onto his side. His hand covers Louis’ tummy, fingertips pressing into his clammy skin. He leans down and sucks a deep kiss just below his belly button, kissing all over Louis’ perspiring chest. He starts rutting against Louis’ thigh that’s lodged between his thighs, Louis’ hand finding Harry’s own soft tum, flattening his fingers out atop it as his other hand grabs onto the left side of his waist.

Louis wants his mouth on every part of him. He especially wants to litter his stomach with bruises.

Another time, though, because now Harry shifts himself back into his lap, straddling him again and grips Louis’ cock to sink back onto.

He exhales as Louis enters him once more, resting his hands over Louis’ upper body for support, caressing Louis’ sensitive skin with every assured bounce, the smattering of hair on Louis’ chest standing up in the wake of Harry’s fingertips, igniting blazing hot sparks across his overheated body.

The younger boy’s hips snap faster, rocking backwards and forwards frantically when Louis’ fingers dig into his small, perky bum (god, he loves Harry’s bum), palming at his cheeks, urging Harry on with whispered, expletive-heavy encouragement as he raises himself on his cock again, the glide easy, dark curls messy and matted to his forehead, damp with sweat as he screws himself back down, pants fast and heavy, his thighs flexing with every pound of his hips slapping obscenely against Louis’ skin.

Louis grips tightly onto them. “You still good?” he wonders.

Harry’s face splits into a lazy, lopsided grin. “Yeah, I’m good. So good. You?”

“Yeah, ‘m so fucking good. And congrats on your riding skills, babe.”

“Do I get another A-star for this? My blowing just as good as my riding?” Harry grins, laughing breathily.

“Fuck, yes,” Louis practically growls from beneath him.

A choked laugh slips past Harry’s lips, which turns into another aborted groan as Louis holds his hips firmly in place and thrusts roughly, keen to reach for that place inside Harry that will have him shaking apart.

Only Louis’ half-distracted by how fucking beautiful Harry is right now. The fairy lights above them illuminating Harry’s features in shadows, his pale skin now bathed in the warm lighting of Louis’ dorm as he continues bouncing on Louis’ cock like a fucking pro going for gold, soft moans continuously escaping his puffy, spit slick lips. Every pretty noise he’s making pushing Louis another inch closer to falling off the edge.

“Fuck, Harry. You look so fucking beautiful right now,” Louis blurts out, eyes falling shut, all inhibitions completely out the window.

“God, Lou. I can’t—I can’t hold it much longer,” Harry pants out. “I think I’m gonna come.”

“Come then. Want you to,” he gasps.

“I don’t know if—I can’t,” Harry pants, mouth falling open as he leans back slightly, brows furrowed in pleasure as he throws his head back, aching his neck and titling his body backwards, holding onto Louis’ calves. Louis keeps a steady hold on his frantic hips to stop him toppling back off the bed and thrusts as rhythmically and as fast as he can.

“Louis,” Harry whines shrilly, bodies working together in a frenzy, eager as ever to reach their climax, skin slapping hard against skin. “Oh my fucking god!” He barrels forwards again and collapses onto him, breathing hotly into Louis’ neck, moans muffled in his sweaty skin, blanketing Louis’ body with his.

Harry’s fingers find and bury into Louis’ hair as Louis thrusts with his knees bent, before flipping them over so that they’re lying partly on their sides, almost falling off of Louis’ single bed.

He hitches Harry’s right leg up and hooks it over his hip for a better angle, searching for that spot inside him as he slips deeper into Harry, clutching his body close as they roll over so that Harry is on his back, hiking Harry’s leg up at another tilted angle.

Harry’s whole body jolts suddenly, shaking thighs hugging Louis’ clammy hips, and he cries out hoarsely with a sharp tug to Louis’ hair, his other hand dragging blunt fingernails roughly down his sweat-shiny back as he desperately bucks up to meet Louis on each thrust.

“Yes, yes, yes! There! Fucking  _there_ —” he shouts, face contorting in pleasure, digging his fingers into Louis’ bum, hard. Thank god no one’s in right now. Shitting hell. 

“Don’t stop, please,” he gasps as Louis tries to frantically keep up his thrusts, beginning to lose some rhythm, becoming more erratic the closer he gets to his own orgasm. “I’m right there.”

“Oh, my god, Harry,” Louis moans, delirious now. He barely remembers his own name at this point, focused solely on getting Harry to come.

Louis’ muscles are wound as tight as they can go, his whole body on fire with every thrust, glutes aching and arse clenching as his hips snap as fast as he can make them go, the bed rocking so hard and noisily that Louis has the brief urge to laugh.

“Fuck!” Harry’s legs squeeze around Louis’ lower back, ankles locking in place, his grip unwavering on Louis’ bum. "Holy fuck," he moans lowly.

“Come on, Harry,” Louis coaxes. Harry gazes up at him with glossy eyes and bitten lips, panting. “Think you can come for me now?”

He kisses him, clumsy and lingering as he works to bring this wonder of a boy to the edge, cock nudging at his spot relentlessly, one hand cradling his face, continuing to kiss him, albeit messily, his other hand holding onto his waist as he uses the balls of his feet to propel himself forward, his pace starting to slow down.

Harry moans into his mouth, lips smudging his wetly, mouthing along his neck as he hugs Louis’ body closer still, legs wrapping tighter around his waist.

Then his fingers push into the cleft of Louis’ bum cheeks, teasing at his own entrance.

“Save that for round two, baby,” Louis slurs, mind hazily stumbling through a thick cloud of pleasure as white heat starts to pool urgently in his groin, his muscles taut. “Shit!”

His hand lets go of Harry’s waist. He reaches down between their sweaty, flushed bodies and tugs at his leaking cock, red and resting on his stomach. He strokes him rough and fast, his thumb swiping firmly over Harry’s slit before Harry’s choking out muffled whimpers into his neck, body tensing up as pearly white stripes paint both of their chests.

Harry tips his neck back on another moan as he continues to come, body trembling with jerky movements, hands holding onto the back of Louis’ neck, thumbs pressing underneath his jaw.

Louis manages a few more long, deep thrusts and comes with a shout, shuddering hard all over as he shoots into the condom. “Fuck,” he whispers between laboured pants.

He collapses on Harry’s chest, their chests heaving and loud in the otherwise empty dorm.

They come down together, Harry staying unmoving on his back, Louis pressed to his chest.

Harry tangles their fingers together, arms bent and hands caught between their bodies, just lying there for a few dazed, euphoric moments, their eyes glassy and skin sticky and damp with cold sweat before they both break into wide, tired smiles.

“Gonna pull out now,” Louis whispers, Harry wincing slightly as Louis rids himself of the condom and chucks it in the bin, and then settles back onto Harry’s messy chest, not caring.

He cushions his head atop his sternum, eyes closing as Harry’s fingers softly brush his hair back, gently massaging his scalp in random patterns, his free arm wrapped around Louis in a one-armed hug. Harry wriggles down the bed a bit so that his chin rests on Louis’ head.

“You’re so, so lovely,” he hears Harry murmur into his hair as Louis' eyelids grow heavier with every struggling blink to keep his eyes open. “That was amazing.”

Louis hums, pleased. “I was, wasn’t I? Fucking lit, I'd say.”

He feels the vibrations of Harry’s rumbling laugh on his chest and smiles sleepily as he looks up at him, Harry bending his chin down to see him too, his green gaze far too starry-eyed and intimately fond than Louis is entirely comfortable with, confusion settling back within his innards at how he might feel about him, but he cuddles further into the sleepy boy anyway, and decides that he likes the way Harry holds him tighter, clinging onto him with soft, easy breaths.

**

He really needs to move.

Louis’ arm is asleep where it’s being crushed by Harry’s weight, caught underneath his back, and as much as he would like to stay in bed all day, Harry snuggled against his side, he really does need to urgently relieve himself, his bladder about to burst. (He doesn’t reckon pissing the bed with Harry still in it would go down a treat.)

But even though his body has been screaming that he get up, he’s instead spent the last hour replaying the events of last night in his head—which mostly consist of a euphoric blur of sticky skin, searing mouths and Harry’s deep moans against his ear—as daylight fast approaches, Louis pressed up with a warm, naked boy  clutched to his side, his soft snores lulling Louis in and out of consciousness, breathing in the saccharine smell of his hair and sweat and sex.

God. They had _sex_. Proper sex this time.

And Louis’ already aching to do it again, and again, and maybe a few more times after that, too. Perhaps. If Harry’s up for it. Maybe.

He dips his chin, inadvertently nudging the top Harry’s perfect chocolate brown bedhead, his slightly sour breath tickling the sore spots on Louis’ pulse point. He spies the bruises littered further down his neck and chest. Shit. Good job it’s cold enough to wear thick scarves or he’d be questioned mercilessly.

And Harry. He just looks so peaceful, so gorgeous, so fucking lovely. Cheeks dusted a shade of practically cerise, his lips puffy and plump and a lighter pink this morning.

But now he really needs to shut up about Harry’s prettiness and empty his bladder at long last. He certainly doesn’t want this to be the only time he sleeps with Harry (and yes, he realises he’s changed his mind extremely quickly since last night) and if he wets the bed, well, it’ll be fucking over, won’t it.

So Louis carefully extracts himself from beneath Harry’s arms, one hand clamped around Louis’ forearm and the other caught around his waist. Fortunately, the other boy barely stirs.

As ever.

Louis finally pulls on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, tip toeing it to the bathroom, bare feet sticking to the laminated flooring.

When Louis comes back from the bathroom and switches on the kettle, he’s startled by a clearing of the throat, a very familiar coughing sound.

“Morning, Pez,” Louis lilts innocently as he greets her, floating over to where she stands by the oven and gives her a peck on the cheek. Keeping her sweet, or he’ll have hell to pay for.

He pulls away to see she’s crossing her arms in her fluffy dressing gown and eyeing Louis suspiciously. Or she’s annoyed. Could be both.

Oh no. Perrie heard them, didn’t she?

Fuck, were they that loud last night? How long did it even go on for? It was like time was suspended, and Louis was so out of it, so lost in a thick haze of  _Harry, Harry, Harry,_  that he doesn’t even remember them falling asleep? Or even what time it was when they finished. Ahem. God.

Louis' face heats up. Well, this is a tad embarrassing.

“How are you this morning?” Louis asks nonchalantly, plopping a mug down on the worktop. It’s a rainbow mug that belongs to Harry. He won’t mind. Oh, actually. He should probably make him a tea, too. Since Harry’s always got one ready for him. It’s only fair. Louis reaches up and places another mug onto the worktop. A black one with white polka dots. Also Harry’s. “Good?”

“Not as good as you are, evidently.” Perrie raises her eyebrows.

Louis releases a breathy laugh. “Um... you didn’t, uh...” he starts, obsessively touching his hair, cheeks heating up further as he starts to laugh a bit manically, “...you didn’t happen to hear—”

“You and Harry going at it like bunnies? Yes, I did.” Perrie’s is tone curt. Louis outwardly cringes. No point keeping it in. “It went on for  _quite_  a while,” she says sternly, narrowing her eyes into slits, and for one terrifying second, Louis really thinks she’s properly pissed off, (and, oh god, what if the others heard them too? Oh, sweet, merciful ground, swallow him up now) but then the air is suddenly knocked out of him and Perrie’s squeezing his chest hard enough to cut off his oxygen supply.

“Perrie, Pez. I can’t breathe,” he chokes out, arms limp at his sides.

“Oh, I’m so happy you two worked things out. Finally!”

Louis laughs. “Yeah, me—whoa. Wait, what? Work what out?”

“Do you honestly think I’ve not noticed you two snogging the faces off each other?” she coos. “Liam reckoned you were just ‘friends with benefits’ but I said there’s no way you’d only want—”

Louis glances down, itching a spot by his nose. Oh, it’s awkward. It’s awkward, it’s awkward.

“Or not,” Perrie says, brows furrowing slightly. “What’s going on between you exactly? I thought you liked Harry?”

She waits, eyes expectant.

“I do! Of course I like Harry,” Louis almost screeches. “Harry is... well, he’s...” Louis sighs a bit dreamily. Okay, a lot dreamily. (He’ll deny it.) “He’s kind of...  _wonderful,_ _actually_ _._ ”

“Some kind of wonderful?” she teases. “Oh, you’re such a cheeseball, Lou. Jesus.”

Perrie makes a pleased noise.

“But we’re not dating or anything... we’re, um. Distracting each other. From stuff.”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t get all judgey, okay? I’m warning you.” Louis points a finger at her. She holds up her hands. “But exactly that. It’s not serious. We’re just having—”

“Comfort sex?” Perrie finishes, raising a dubious eyebrow.

“ _Fun_.” Louis crosses his arms defensively. “But we’re friends. We’re genuinely almost best mates now, I reckon.”

"Okay. So you are ‘friends with benefits’ then?”

“Do we have to call it that?”

Perrie shrugs. "Well, not if you don't want to, no." She pauses. "Does Harry want to call it that?”

“You’re getting judgemental. There’s nothing wrong with casual sex ,” Louis mutters. “Last night was only the first time we properly slept together.”

“I didn’t say there was!” Perrie frowns, voice softer. “I just think this is a stupid idea because it’s clearly not  _casual_.”

“What?”

“You and Harry have been all over each other, all the time," she says, like it's obvious. "Flirting and being all domestic and settled into your own little routine. Everyone’s already assumed you’re dating. You just act like it. All coupley and ridiculously tactile and you’re _always_ holed up in each other’s rooms. Neither of you even look at anyone else.”

Jesus. They are not ‘coupley’. Are they?

“Is that really what we look like? A _couple_?” Louis gapes like a fish.

Perrie shakes her head, sighing. “God, man.”

Louis starts aggressively pouring the boiled water into the mugs, frowning hard. Shit.

“Morning, Harry,” Perrie smiles, but she’s less chirpy, a small crease between her brows when she looks back over at Louis. And he knows she’s only being a protective friend, that she’s worried Louis’ going to get hurt, but god. Louis can handle this. This isn’t as far gone as she seems to think. It’s not. Louis can tone down his... feelings. He can. He promised.

Maybe Louis should make it clear to Harry that it can’t happen again.

It’s what’s best... and it’s also what he told himself last night. Look how that turned out...

“Hey,” Louis smiles as he turns around to face Harry, who’s barely got his eyes open, ruffled from sleep and looking like he’s been royally fucked. Of course. Louis’ a bit smug, until Harry meets Louis eyes and beams like the sun when he sees him.

“Morning,” Harry rumbles, shaking his hair and padding over to Louis in just his boxers, a happy blissful smile on his sleep-creased face, pausing when he realises Perrie’s still in the room. His eyes flick to Louis with uncertainty.

Perrie presses her lips together, giving them both a thoughtful smile before she pads to the bathroom. "Right, I'm gonna get dressed," she yawns. 

Louis knows he’s going to hear more about this later.

Harry pushes his lips together, forming a casual pout. “Are we in trouble?” he whispers, hands clasping Louis’ waist in a possessive squeeze. Louis bites a smirk at the easy touch. "She heard us, I'm guessing," Harry cringes apologetically, a hint of a smirk taking over his lips. 

“Nah, she’s—she’s fine about it. Just told me to tone down the volume next time,” he grins, winding his arms easily around Harry’s neck. Like it's natural. Like they fit, their lower bodies pressing flush against each other.

“Oh, god,” Harry grimaces, but falls into giggles. “That’s embarrassing," he snorts.

“A little bit, yeah,” Louis says, smiling up at Harry and pushing their lips together for a quick, close-mouthed kiss.

Harry tries to deepen it, but then pulls away, biting on his lip, eyeing Louis closely. “I thought, um... I thought you’d gone," he mumbles, as though he doesn't quite want Louis to hear him. His smile is gone and what’s left is uncertainty, shyness, even, but his fingertips gingerly linger on the hem of Louis’ t-shirt.

“Gone?” Louis raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly. He clears his throat. “It's just. When I woke up... I guess I had a brief moment of panic when you weren't next to me.”

Louis' face spreads into a coy beam. “Aww, babe. I wasn't gone. I do live here, you know." He crowds Harry's space, smiling into his dimpled cheek. "I wouldn’t have gone far,” he smiles up at him, squeezing his waist and gives him another kiss. "No, I really needed a wee.” Harry breaks into a gorgeous smile and Louis needs help to support himself upright at the stunning sight. “And I was making us tea. I might,” Louis brings him closer, tugging his head to him, their noses almost brushing, “even have poured you out some cereal.”

“Wow,” Harry drawls sarcastically. “That’s so romantic!” He giggles, nudging their noses together in an Eskimo kiss and clutching at Louis’ waist. He smudges a kiss to Louis’ open mouth. It's so fucking cute. Harry is too, too cute.

They hover on the spot, swaying slightly, nosing at each other’s faces leisurely, eyes lidded. They stay like this for a while, tea going cold. Then they trudge to the bathroom, Harry walking behind him, pasted to his back, and they brush their teeth together, exchanging silly, shy smiles in the mirror. Louis is then turning around to a sheepish Harry, who's biting his lip again, hands behind his back.

“What?” Louis lilts, already smiling and walking back into the hall and to the kitchen, hearing Harry's steps following him. It's all so. Domestic. Louis doesn't think too hard about it, just knows Harry's body seems to gravitate towards Louis as well, whether he's aware of it or not.

Harry plants his hands on Louis' waist as he reboils the kettle and tips the tepid tea into the sink. “Hey, um. Do you want to maybe do something? Like go somewhere. Today? If you’re not busy, that is.”

Louis doesn't even have to think about it, eager to spend as much time with this lovely boy as possible. “Sure, okay,” Louis nods instantly. “Where did you have in mind?”

“I thought we could go to a gallery in the city.”

“An art gallery?” Louis asks, surprised. 

Harry nods. “Mm. Yeah. It might be fun? And um, I haven’t been to one in a while. Could do with collecting some research for my essay. It is almost Christmas break soon. I need to start planning.”

“Ah, yeah. So it is.” Louis glances at the clock. He is kind of dragging behind with his work, but at least he won’t be distracted by Harry during the break. He can get the bulk of his assignments done at last.

Oh, please. Who is he trying to kid? He’ll be daydreaming about Harry’s lips even while he drowns underneath a hefty pile of textbooks.

“Alright. Let me hop in the shower first before we get dressed and we’ll go, yeah?” he smiles, pecking Harry’s lips again because he can, and because Harry’s already bending down with his lips puckered up, expecting it. Adorable boy. Louis' tummy flutters once more. “Oh, but after we've had tea, yeah?”

“Yeah? Okay,” Harry murmurs, eyes blooming with affection, mouth etched in delight. “But I’ll come with you,” he says, holding Louis' hand after a few moments.

“Oh, you will, you?” Louis smirks, as he chucks the teabags in the bin and stirs some milk into their teas.

“Yep,” Harry says proudly, swaying their hands cutely, and gratefully accepting his rainbow mug, but not before planting an obnoxiously noisy kiss to Louis’ cheek.

“Saves water, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, well, if it’s better for the environment then I guess we’ll just have to share a shower.”

“I’ll think we’ll have to. Sorry about that,” Harry smirks. "That alright?"

Louis rolls his eyes, but he can’t disguise the broad smile stretching his cheeks, or the blush that dusts them, too. “Ugh, if we have to.” He meets Harry’s eyes, which have turned playfully petulant, determinedly kissing the smirk off his face.

Out of his system, did he say?

Yeah, Harry most certainly is not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, ahem, that was rather smutty... *shuffles away* 
> 
> No, but I hope this isn't too bad? I don't usually write any angsty bits other than excessive pining, so I'm not sure if it's any good. I'm writing the last chapter now though! (It might be split into two, I'm not sure yet. Depends how much I write) and thank you for your feedback, it really helps me to keep going!! :) xx


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm so sorry it took so long for an update, but here it is :) I haven't finished wrapping up everything yet so the final chapter should be coming soon *fingers crossed* To everyone who's still reading, thank you so much!! (I've also made some edits to previous chapters if you want to re-read at some point!)

 

Louis can do this.

He can push aside the fact that Harry doesn't want to be in a relationship with anyone for his own valid, personal reasons, and he can deal with them only being _friends with benefits_ , as Perrie put it. And no, he also doesn't have any intention of ending things with Harry now, either. Nope. Louis plans to make the most of his time with Harry, and wants to ensure every waking moment is memorable. (While wistfully hoping Harry will realise he sees Louis in a different light at some point along the way. Ugh. Emphasis on the  _hoping_.)

Yes. Louis is going to bask in every single second. Whether they're just talking tiredly in bed, drinking their tea in the kitchen over lazy kisses, or running riot around an art gallery like today, in fact.

Because regardless of what else goes on between them, Harry is Louis' friend.

And that's pretty fucking awesome, if you ask Louis.

He can pretend he's okay. For a bit, anyway.

“Babe, I’m sorry, but that,” Louis points disdainfully at the enormous zigzag shaped structure on top of a pristine white box, “is a fucking grey blob at the end of the day.”

Because they’re currently at the Tate Modern, and Louis is still feeling pleasantly warm and giddy from a day of riding the tube and strolling around the city with a perky, wonderfully animated Harry—carrying a neverending beam on his face—their hands never unclasped for long, and slurping on numerous coffees.

Louis hasn’t been here since high school—on a rainy day when they all came down to London on a boring five-hour coach ride. (He forgot what bizarre stuff they had on display here). But it’s worth it for Harry's inhuman noise as he slaps his hand over his mouth in delighted mortification, the skin on skin contact echoing throughout the spotless, open room. Loudly. (And that had to hurt, too.) 

"Louis!" he shrieks, dramatically flailing his limbs, even though they're the only two visitors in this section at the moment. 

Still. Oops.

Louis sniggers into his fist, thoroughly endeared, his steps light as he dances on his heels across the room, tapping the floorboards with noisy creaks. 

Harry’s eyes widen in delight as Louis prances his way to the other side, Harry's long legs striding right after him, and Louis has to stifle his cackle, bending his knees as he attempts to silently laugh at Harry's reaction, (though none too subtly, no matter how hard Louis tries to contain his glee) his insides feeling buoyantly fizzy because  _he_  made Harry laugh like that.  _He_  did that.

Louis feels triumphant.

“Ouch. Did that hurt?” He smiles, eyes all crinkly-eyed and doing nothing to dial back his charmed mood, fingers curling around Harry's wrist automatically. Harry leans into the touch and Louis grins wider.

“I was a bit overzealous there, I think,” Harry breathes into his ear, attempting to whisper, and most definitely not whispering at all. His face is scrunched up, and he’s positively  _glowing_. “Ouch.” He cradles his mouth, looking for more of Louis’ instant sympathy, still grinning brightly.

Louis tries to simmer down, but it’s no use. So he stands, staring at Harry for a moment, just wanting to squeeze, and nuzzle, and hold him until he’s screeching hysterically for an escape.

“N’aww,” he coos exaggeratedly, smoothing both his hands over Harry’s face and into his hair, pushing his curled quiff back and fluffing it up more than necessary. A lot more. And Harry lets him as usual, pliant and entirely unbothered at the state of his carefully constructed hairdo. He even  _purrs_ —amazingly similarly to a real life cat, too—the peculiar duckling letting his eyes close contentedly, his poetically-shaped mouth happily curving into a pressed smile. “There,” he says, voice pathetically fond. “You look like a fabulous peacock now. I hope you like those,” he comments wryly. “Because that’s what you shall be for the remainder of this exquisite evening, my darling.”

Harry grins wide, eyes still closed, one of his hands coming up to blindly grasp at Louis’ wrist. “I do like peacocks,” he murmurs lowly.

“Yeah, you bet you do,” Louis leers at his mouth, experiencing a surge of inappropriate arousal. Oops, again. He may have said that last phrase out loud. 

Harry makes another piercing sound of amusement that is not of this world, throwing his head back as his massive mouth guffaws. He's ridiculous.

The security guard chilling in the corner, however, is not amused in the slightest. He gives them an unimpressed look, particularly aimed at Harry’s noisy elephant footsteps, his boots clacking against the floor with every feverish shift and movement.

Louis makes his eye roll so very obvious, feeling very indignant. Twat. Looking at his boy like he’s an inconvenience, because God forbid someone be having fun around here. (And, okay. Uh. He just called Harry _his_   _boy_... but moving swiftly on.)

Harry’s going to have his beautiful paintings hung up all over these walls one day, so this security guy can jog the fuck on.

Who decided it has to be dead silent in one of these places? Afraid they’ll upset the snooty elitists among all the genuinely passionate art students? Alright, so it’s a time for reflection or whatever, but Louis thinks that’s just a little bit pretentious to expect still silence. Surely people can discuss the things they’re looking at?

(Or Louis is jumping to exaggerated conclusions and is far too sensitive over people’s reactions to Harry’s enthusiasm.)

But he’s making an effort because  _Harry_ is passionate about this. This is what he loves and if it makes him happy then that makes Louis happy, too. It just does. No point in denying it. Not to himself, anyway. (Louis may really be in deep at this point, but he's running on an impulsive, powerful natural high right now. He'll have a freak out later, obviously.) So he will listen and nod and genuinely take in whatever words Harry has to say, along with throwing around the odd silly comment good-naturedly as well, solely to make him laugh.

Because Louis really does love Harry’s laugh. It’s something else entirely. Louis’ pretty sure that alien sound of his adds an extra year onto his life each time he hears it.

Which is a lot lately, now that he thinks about it.

It’s a nice sound. It’s familiar and safe and fast-becoming akin to—he’s then distracted out of his almost scary epiphany because there’s a rude person staring at them unabashedly with raised brows.

“Wanna take a picture, mate?” he snaps. Harry's eyes bulge, on the verge of bursting back into giggles. “This isn’t a zoo. Even if his limbs do resemble a baby giraffe’s, alright? Leave the poor boy alone, he’s sensitive about them.”

Louis pulls another face that makes Harry guffaw like a goon, theatrically cradling Harry to his side, kissing his cheek. “You’ve made him cry now. Look what you've done, you monster,” he scolds, trying to hold in his mad affection and stop it from seeping out of his body, and soaking the floorboards, Harry sniggering wildly into his neck. 

More laughter bubbles up Louis' throat. He just feels so  _happy_. There’s a certain rush he gets from entertaining Harry—it’s like he’s won at life, and it’s addictive, and it only spurs on his disruptive side more. He never claimed to not be a wind-up merchant, whatever it costs him.

The world is too boring, too dark, too depressing not to always be a little bit mischievous. A little bit naughty. 

He releases himself from Harry’s familiar, if somewhat clingy grip, attempting an air of nonchalance as he turns away. It fails instantly when he hears Harry’s heels marching after him at once, an endlessly captivated, crooked smile etched on his gorgeous face.

Louis bites hard on his lip, ecstatic, before he schools his face into something bored. “So do all art galleries smell like a mixture of polish and sawdust? God, it’s stuffy in here. Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, sticking his hand inside the collar of his white t-shirt and stretching the fabric out—well aware Harry’s gaze is lingering on the exposed part of his chest.

"You're a terrible menace.” Harry pokes a finger at it. “I love it," he grins, scrunching up his nose and shaking out his hair.

“I do try.” Louis grins wider. “You  _sure_ we’ve not actually stumbled into a very posh Gran’s house?”

Harry has to stifle his snorts with his large hands, but he’s really not trying all that hard in Louis’ estimations. It’s only making his noises louder, and Harry cackles even harder when a middle-aged couple stare at them with their noses turned up as they enter the room.

Louis smirks devilishly, teasingly exposing an extra slither of skin, very pleased when Harry’s eyes stay fixed to the spot, tongue peeking out to lick his lips, his stare ravenous. Louis drinks it in, high off his gaze, feeling like he’s had six vodka sodas in a row, blood thrumming along with the horniness that comes with it, too. Harry looks  _stunning_ , all flushed cheeks and glossy eyes, which knowingly rake up and down Louis’ body with a wicked glint perched in the corners.

But before he can get lost in Harry’s honestly hypnotic stare, out of his peripherals, Louis can unfortunately glimpse the security guard striding towards them, likely about to politely tell them to leave, so he tries to discreetly communicate to Harry that he’s going to make a run for it, subtly tilting his head and widening his eyes, ridiculously wagging his eyebrows up and down and defeating the whole objective of being subtle.

Okay, so he’s not as swarve as he thought.

Harry doesn't seem to mind, though.

He turns around and catches the not too friendly glance the security man sends Louis’ way, bursting into another delirious giggle. (There may be a large amount of spit involved).

Louis grabs hold of his hand.

They run around the gallery like frantic, utterly over-hyped children, misbehaved and unruly, completely throwing out the proper, respectful etiquette required in something as stuffy as this place of inspiration, visitors shooting them disapproving glances.

Louis cringes a little. He really thought Harry would have him murdered for this kind of behaviour before they got here, but Louis' quickly realising Harry is just as difficult, in some ways even louder than Louis can be. Harry is loving it, and has done nothing but encourage Louis to push things further with his incessant laughing, unquestioningly following Louis around the gallery with awkward, uncoordinated limbs and bright eyes that sparkle in the harsh lighting of the rooms, his hair wild and his cheeks pink with excitement as they skid across the polished floors, their shoes squeaking against it.

Yeah. They’re definitely getting thrown out. And Louis can't say he doesn’t think they deserve it.

“Oh, my god. Shit, we’re hooligans, Lou,” Harry pants, beaming. “You’re so naughty.”

“Eh?! You’ve done the same as me, Mister." Louis grins impishly. "You’re going to regret this when you get caught with this wayward son. You'll never be allowed back.” He tugs on Harry’s hand, hiding them behind a spotlessly white wall around the corner to the slanted entrance, (which is more like a fucking hill) out of breath from all the running about they’ve been doing, finding everything far too hilarious than it should be.

Time to sneak out the entrance sharpish, he thinks. Best to leave of their own accord than get chucked out for disrespecting the art.

“You’ll get locked away with only this face to keep you company.”

“I’d be completely okay with that,” Harry says seriously, face then transforming into a lopsided smile. Louis loves those kind of smiles.

“Would you really?” he lilts, blinking coquettishly.

Harry hums his affirmation, smile morphing into something a bit more desire soaked now, crowding Louis’ space and gently pinning his shoulders against the wall, his forearms resting either side of Louis’ head, his mouth barely inches from his own. “More than okay,” he whispers, noses at Louis’ neck, mouth dragging upwards underneath his jaw, following down to his collarbones and back up again until he reaches his chin, his lips just barely touching.

His eyes lock with his.

“We’d have some fun would we, Artsy Boy?” Louis rasps.

“We’re having fun now, aren’t we?” Harry murmurs into his skin, delicately shifting his hips closer to Louis’.

Louis can hear the smile in his voice, his knees embarrassingly wobbly. He sighs, smiling so hard his cheeks ache, entirely too pleased with that answer. He tries to look away and hide his smirk in his shoulder.

“Buckets,” he says, closing his blissfully satisfied eyes, ignoring the people passing them by, despite the fact they're not exactly hidden.

But of course Harry notices the affect he's having on him. The other boy reaches for his hand, interlocking their fingers. He pulls back to stand upright, twisting around and starts walking, still holding onto Louis’ hand, tugging him along.

“Where are we are going?” Louis wonders, pulse stuck in his throat, and buzzing with restless energy as he trails behind him.

Harry spins around and crowds his space again, hauling Louis towards him by the neck, Louis going with him easily (boy, he’d like to explore his submissive streak with Harry at some point) and leaning in close. “Somewhere deep in the universe,” he breathes hotly, the words brushing the shell of Louis’ ear as he leans back with his grip still firm on Louis’ hand, his face etched in elated happiness.

"You going to take me to the stars?" Louis grins.

"If you want," Harry nods, eyes soft.

Louis watches him, enamoured. “Wow. Well, then. Take me there at once, Space Boy.”

“Your wish is my command, Star Boy,” Harry beams back, slightly bouncy on his toes.

Louis stares, needing a second or five to catch his breath as he takes in Harry’s everything, before following after the bounding boy without hesitation.

**

Unsurprisingly, they ended up at the Science Museum. It was honestly delightful, and extremely flattering—since Harry was relentlessly spouting cheesy lines the whole time about the stars, and how none of them shine brighter than or are as beautiful as Louis, about how he’s the single, brightest star in the universe and silly stuff like that—it had Louis turning beetroot red and hiding his face in Harry’s chest.

Louis' squirming delighted Harry of course. And only made Harry go that bit extra. Continuing to shower him with cosmic nonsense, insisting they were probably made from the same dust or constellation or something Louis couldn’t keep with. To which Louis feigned disgust as Harry continued to jabber on about galaxies and stardust and the light of a thousand suns—how none of it compared to him, giggling madly and poking at Louis’ side and grabbing for his hands—hands that tried to twist Harry’s nipples to get him to stop his unabashed, poetic compliments. It was too much. Far too much for Louis to deal with. But despite this fact, Louis couldn’t snuff out his inability to wipe the blissfully happy smile off his face.

And Harry wore his own smile proudly, twirling around each exhibit with Louis’ hand in his the whole time, even when their palms were clammy and unpleasantly warm, Harry still held on tight.

Everything was easy and comfortable and flirtatious.

Apart from one rocky moment that had Louis’ brain racing into overdrive.

“You’re the sun and the stars and everything in between that shines the brightest,” Harry bellowed, voice laced in a sort of fondness that had Louis’ heart stuttering with overwhelming affection.

“Harry, stop,” he squawked, giving his chest a playful shove and smothering his mouth with his hand, Harry stumbling over his own feet. “You don’t have to keep wooing me to get lucky, mate. That’s a dead cert either way,” he smirked. “You are one hundred percent getting laid again tonight.” He patted Harry’s firm chest smugly.

But Harry’s smile fell.

He was quiet for a few moments, shifting uncomfortably on the spot. “I’m not—this isn't me just trying to get back into your pants?” he frowned, hurt lying in the corners of his eyes. “You don't think that's what I'm always doing, do you? We’re friends, too, aren’t we? We can have fun and do stuff without anything to do with—getting off.” His voice was laced with offence, wounded. 

The younger boy took a step back, removing his hand from Louis’ and diverted his gaze, expression irritable.

Louis blinked rapidly, unable to comprehend how the atmosphere changed so suddenly. “What? No, yeah, of course we’re friends!" he insisted a bit frantically. Harry refused to look at him. Jesus. This had taken a turn. He took a step forward, carefully taking back Harry’s hand in his. Harry begrudgingly let him.

“Hey?" he tried. "I’m sorry, H. I didn’t mean to make this—”

“Weird,” Harry finished. “I made it weird, didn’t I?” He sighed, seeming confused and apologetic. “Sorry. I don’t know why I—sorry.” He shook his head, his brows furrowed deeply. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Louis said, trying to repress the overwhelming sense of hope he mindlessly felt. "I like being your friend, okay? That's what you are, first and foremost," he assured him, willing the encouragement in his chest to settle down. Even if Harry was showing genuine discomfort at the blasé way Louis spoke about their...  _thing_.

But how could Louis not be hopeful about that? When this surely meant that there was the possibility that Harry might really, actually, want this to be more now? It was certainly getting closer to seeming that way.

But he had to reign this in. False hope wasn't going to do him any good. Besides, Harry said what he’d gone through had made him less susceptible to trusting easily. He was scared of getting hurt, of liking someone who didn’t like him back.

Louis did, though. And Louis would never hurt him. He had to know that?

“It’s not your fault you’re such a sensitive bee.” He pressed a thumb into Harry's soft cheek, willing a glorious dimple to appear.

That made Harry’s mouth quirk, and a dimpled followed after. Thank god. “Bee?” His face spread into a reluctant, but sugary sweet smile. “I really am going to get that tattooed on me sometime, you know.”

“You most certainly are not.”

“I most certainly am. And it’s going to have a smiley face and be wearing cute little glasses for reading. Either that, or it's going to be the most monstrous, threatening bee ever. A major Queen Bee." 

“You’re really weird.” Louis smiled on an exhale, endeared.

“Thank you, Louis," Harry replied proudly. 

After that little road bump (of optimism) in their night, (and another noticeable wobble from Harry due to Louis being chatted up by a bloke in the gift shop, ahem) all the flirting over space was shortly followed by a trip to a nice but affordable bar around Soho.

And when they finally stumbled back to halls, buoyant and tipsy on a sugar high of syrupy pink cocktails on offer, of course Harry came back to Louis’ room, and of course they ended up only half-watching a crappy rom-com while engaging in a sloppy, excessively handsy kissing session, which of course quickly led to having sex again.

“Do me,” Harry beamed smugly up at him, eyes closed as he lay flat out on the bed, arms awaiting Louis to climb on top of him.

Louis snorted. “Nice. Really romantic talk, that.”

"I like to think so," Harry sung. “I’m the king of romance,” he declared, and pulled him down to laugh into his mouth, smothering Louis' own breathy laugh in a dirty kiss.

They continued to titter through Louis’ deep, meticulous thrusts, the sheets tangled around Louis’ waist, Harry’s legs wrapped high around his back, crossed at the ankles. Their inebriated giggles began to die out before long, replaced by Harry’s soft pants that tickled his face with every languid push inside his body, skin tingling and sweaty as Harry’s arms tightened their hold around Louis’ shoulders. Harry's fingers found their way into Louis’ hair, carding through the strands, fingertips pressing harder into his nape whenever Louis aimed a particularly accurate thrust against his spot, making his body jolt.

Louis tried not to think too hard about well they fit together, or how comfortable and wanted he felt with his body entangled so completely with Harry’s, bodies pressed together as close as humanly possible. It was as though they were subconsciously trying to become one body, two heartbeats falling into sync as they frequently exchanged hungry kisses.

It scared him a bit, if he was honest—what they were doing—it was so intimate, affectionate, Harry must have started to notice, too?—but he didn’t have long to focus on those fluttering murmurings at the back of his mind—not when Harry was growing increasingly impatient, proceeding to push back onto him in a needy fashion, palms dug into Louis’ bum, wordlessly urging him to move faster.

Louis happily obliged, mouthing at Harry’s damp neck, getting lost in the way his ivory skin flushed pink. He felt too warm under the dim glow of the fairy lights above them—lights that comically flickered more or less in time with every thrust and creak of the bed.

He grew steadily more drunk on every laboured breath, whimper and moan that fell from Harry’s mouth, simply incapable of not kissing his plush, wet cherry lips, intent on swallowing every gorgeous sound that slipped past them as they both climbed desperately to the edge.

Now it’s three in the morning and they’re wide awake, lower bodies hidden under the covers, a thin sheen of glistening sweat on their chests.

Harry is curled to Louis’ side, so soft and pliant, eyes lidded with his long body sprawled on top of him, both of them lying on their stomachs, and Harry’s taken it upon himself to trace nonsensical patterns into Louis’ back (most of the time, anyway. Louis could have sworn he felt Harry writing his own name onto Louis’ back at one point, which both unsettled and satisfied Louis greatly, albeit adding to his mounting confusion as to what exactly they’re even doing anymore).

The squishy pads of his fingers roam over his skin, low, right down to the dip that leads to the cleft of his bum, tracing over the entrance lightly, barely there, really.

It makes Louis squirm, anyway. 

“Harry,” he smiles lazily, muffled in the pillow, feeling absolutely punch-drunk and simultaneously sated. He looks up to see Harry smiling at him softly, tracing all the way back up again, stirring the hair at the back of his head. “Later,” he jokes. Except he’s mostly not joking. At all. It’s definitely something he wants to do next.

Harry makes a blissful sound, his fingers scrunching in Louis’ hair, his smile slowly dissipating.

It goes quiet for a while, then.

Louis thinks about the last two days or so, and what a mostly happy, carefree whirlwind they’ve been inside, but he can still see the melancholy outlining the green of Harry’s eyes, in the subtle downturn of his lips when he thinks Louis isn’t watching. 

“Hey.” He nudges his foot against Harry’s. “Oi. Bigfoot.” Harry’s lips quirk but it’s quickly replaced with another little frown. “Alright?” he asks him, voice drenched in gentle fond.

Harry exhales, rolling onto his back. He nods minutely. “Yeah. ’M just thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Going home.”

“Yikes. Am I that bad company, Harold?” he teases. Louis turns onto his side, facing Harry as he runs his fingers soothingly through his hair. Harry’s lids flutter at the sensation. “Or am I just that shit in bed?” he chides, smiling as his hand leaves his hair, stroking across Harry’s cheek, fingertips pressing into the crater of a dimple that’s appeared.

“Afraid so. It’s been a complete chore this entire time.” Harry smiles big and wide. “You just won’t leave me alone, will you? It’s embarrassing, Lou. You need help.”

“Shut up, you cheeky shit,” Louis snorts, rolling his eyes, gritting his teeth amusedly as he tickles Harry’s stomach.

“No!” he shrieks. Louis stops immediately, clapping a hand over his mouth.

Harry’s own hand grabs onto it, slowly taking it off but still lightly holding on with a dazzling smile.

But it quickly dissolves once more.

He clears his throat softly. “No, um. I’m just dreading going home for Christmas, you know?”

No, Louis doesn’t know. Not really. Other than being forced to spend an hour or two with his father on Christmas Eve along with his sisters, Louis has brilliant festive periods. Mostly. If he ignores all the melodrama and the whispered conversations.

“I don’t even know how it’s gonna work. Like,” Harry pauses, meeting Louis’ confused gaze and rolling onto his side as well. “It’s just probably gonna suck.”

“Why? What’s wrong at home?” Louis frowns, concerned.

With his left hand tucked beneath his cheek, Harry’s eyes bore into Louis’, trusting and quiet.

“So, um, it’s kind of been a messy year.” Harry exhales tiredly, his breath laced in the strawberry he had earlier, heart-shaped lips shaded to match. Louis nods, mirroring his position on the bed. He shifts his socked feet closer to Harry’s. “Not just because of the whole Mikael thing.”

Louis rolls his eyes and glares at the ceiling. “Ugh, that snake.”

Harry’s lips twitch, his free hand splaying over the side of Louis’ hip. Louis shivers and Harry flits his eyes up to meet Louis’ instantly, his expression morphing back into a quieter one.

“What was messy?” Louis asks.

“My parents were really disappointed that I dropped out of Manchester, but they didn’t know the real reason. They thought I’d just got bored, or lazy and they didn’t understand why I’d leave the course, because it was what I’d always wanted to do.”

Louis hums, absently squeezing the fleshy part of Harry’s hip as he listens.

“They always pushed me to pursue my art work. To keep it up, and they were always, like, buying me new brushes, and paints and fancy materials. Obviously, it’s not exactly the most reliable way to make money or even at all,” he says, rolling his eyes, “but they thought it could lead to me being some kind of designer, that I’d get a good job in the city somewhere. They’re supportive and they want me to have passions that I believe in—not just the highest paid, most practical job, you know? And that’s fine. That’s amazing, actually, you know, that they care that much.”

“It is,” Louis agrees. “You’re really lucky to have both parents support you like that, Harry.”

Harry catches his gaze and there’s swirls of guilt in his eyes. “Yeah,” he breathes, fingers squeezing Louis’ side. “But, um, when I told them why I really left, they were a bit taken aback at first. They were angry on my behalf, but were upset that I didn’t talk to them. They asked if I was gay, and I said I wasn’t sure at the time, but I was sure. I just wasn’t ready to tell them. Not—not like, because I thought they’d hate it or because I did or anything,” he rushes to assure ardently. “I’m completely content with who I am. I like who I am. I'm proud of it. But I guess I was worried they’d still look at me differently.”

“So they don’t know?”

“No, they do. Now they do, but my dad—he never brings it up. My mum, though—she always wants to talk about stuff, like, if I’m into any boys at the moment or whatever.” Harry chuckles, a fond, but slightly embarrassed smile on his lips. “Gemma refuses to talk to her about boys, so I guess I’m her only hope.”

Louis smiles, thumb brushing over Harry’s wrist at his hip. “That’s cute,” he teases.

Harry smiles into his pillow but his brows start to furrow a little. “I just get frustrated sometimes. I’m not sure when my dad is ever going to want to talk about it. It’s not that I really need to, but some acknowledgment of who I am would be nice. Otherwise, I just—I feel like it’s just going to be hanging there over Christmas dinner. My family isn’t the best at communicating.”

“You just have to do you, Harry," he murmurs. "If you're confident in who you are, just let it be. They'll open up in their own time.”

Harry shifts on the mattress, sheets slipping further past his hips. His gaze looks over Louis’ shoulder.

“And I know that’s easy to say, yeah, but no one has the right to make you feel less than you are, and certainly not because of who you are.”

“No, he doesn’t make me feel like that,” Harry assures, shaking his head. “It’s just one more thing added to the things I worry about, you know? The endless pile of things that constantly keep me awake and keep me on edge every day," he says miserably, his hands coming up to rummage through his own hair, his eyes tired.

Louis cups his face, strokes his cheek delicately. Harry’s lashes flutter once more at the sensation. He exhales, long and drawn out, and then his big green eyes are staring steadily back at him, face relaxed but lips mildly downturned. “They’re getting divorced. My parents. That’s—that’s the main reason I’m dreading Christmas, I think.”

“Oh.” Louis frowns. “Oh, Harry. I’m sorry. I know what that’s like.”

Harry’s hand leaves Louis’ waist and encircles Louis’ wrist where his hand is still cupping his cheek. "I know," he says, apologetic. He gives it a meaningful squeeze. 

“They want me to decide who I'm living with after I graduate. You know, if I can't afford to move out. Which I very much doubt I'll be able to, anyway. I still lived with them during my first year of uni because it wasn’t far from our house. They wanted me to pick between  _them_. Which is partly why I picked a uni all the way down here. In London. So I wouldn’t have to think about it. It just makes my head worse. And my sister isn’t talking to them much right now. Everything’s a bit uncomfortable there. And in my head, like—I don’t know. It’s not like I’m eight anymore, is it? I shouldn’t be so upset. It’s stupid. I feel like a child.”

“ _No._  Harry, hey, it is not stupid,” Louis insists, maybe a tad overly impassioned. “Nothing you feel is stupid, okay? Got it? Feelings are normal. Everyone has them. Good or bad. And it’s still going to affect you, no matter how old you are. Parents splitting up—that’s a tough thing to go through, however old you are. God, maybe it’s worse in a way? Because when you’re a kid, you don’t really take it in properly, do you?. They’re just both there one day, together, and then the next, they’re not. And you just go with it because you’re a kid. There's no other choice but to carry on as normal. Even if you feel sad that things seem different.”

Harry meets his gaze. He quietens, and then slowly tips his head back on the pillow, his quiff squashed. He looks small. Young. "I guess, I just—I thought they'd always be together. It just makes me think differently about some things."

Louis frowns, arms desperate to hold him.

It goes quiet again. 

“Sometimes I—I get lost in my head a bit," Harry starts, voice a bit shaky and hoarse with exhaustion.

His eyes find Louis’ own.

“When I’m sad, I kind of let it take over everything. I don’t deal well with stress—which is when my anxiety ramps up.” He pauses, taking a shaky sigh, eyes fluttering closed as his thigh closes the thin gap between them. “I just wish I didn’t have to worry about every little thing, but I can’t help it. Once the feeling of dread is there, it’s so hard to shift. I try to cover it up, overcompensate with the socialising and try and look like I’m fine and happy. Nobody really notices when anything’s wrong, anyway, do they? And I’m good at hiding it, I think.”

Harry moves his head another inch closer to Louis’, so that their foreheads are almost touching. Louis wills himself to settle down, pulse sky rocketing as he stares into Harry’s wide-eyed gaze.

“People never seem to notice you’re suffering if you don’t look like you’re dying on the outside,” Harry says quietly.

“ _I_  notice,” Louis answers instantly.

Harry blinks in surprise. His big eyes wide.

“When we were still,” Louis gestures nonsensically, “dancing around each other,”—he rolls his eyes, Harry’s lips curving in amusement—“you didn’t look fine to me, and I didn’t even know you, but I could tell there was something bothering you."

Louis’ heart starts to race as Harry stares  _into_  him, feeling lightheaded under the heavy weight of his attentive gaze, and then he’s bringing his right hand up to Harry’s head, his thumb brushing under his eyes. “Not that I’m bragging, or anything,” he smirks.

Harry’s eyelashes flutter under Louis’ thumb. “But you know me now?”

Louis nods slowly. “I think so,” he whispers.

Harry moves to nestle his head on Louis’ shoulder, his hand resting atop Louis’ heartbeat and Louis almost stops breathing. Harry’s fingertips curl against his side, thumb pressing back into the fleshy part of Louis’ hip, the sheets sinking lower.

“I like this. When it’s just us,” he says quietly, his gaze intent on Louis’ every movement, his every change in expression, eyes constantly flitting over his face, searching for something. “I like that it’s not complicated. I think I need that, you know? Simple.”

“Simple?” Louis echoes, starting to feel a hollowness in his chest.

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “Don’t you think so, too?” There’s a heavy pause, Harry’s calm gaze switching to one filled with trepidation, a hint of hesitance tinges his irises as he searches Louis’ expression.

“No, yeah. Me too,” he forces out, ignoring the horrible uneasiness sticking to his insides.

“We distract each other, right?”

Great. Terrific. This is fantastic, really. Louis desperately tries to school his face muscles into something neutral, something that doesn’t give away the resounding  _no_  in his gut. He can't do this. He thought he could be happy with just this, but he wants _more_.

“From all our shitty stuff?” Harry presses, reaching out to let the pad of his finger lightly trace the outline of Louis’ mouth, his chin resting atop his arm.

Louis’ heart almost gives up. Because, Christ. Like this is helping. Louis’ heart is lurching painfully in his chest while Harry obliviously traces his fucking mouth.

And it’s so intimate and tender, Louis could cry. Fuck.

He bites down on his lip when Harry’s finger rests against his chin, grazing the light stubble, avoiding his gaze and fixing it on the pattern of Harry’s shirt that’s lying on the floor, then flicking to the bunched up covers atop Harry’s lower belly, the creamy skin of his chest.

Heat arises yet again.

“Me and you—what we have—it feels like this is the most effortless thing in my life right now,” Harry murmurs, completely  oblivious of the inner turmoil Louis is currently going through in this excruciating moment. “I like it. I like us.”

 _God_. Louis wanted to be taken away from his existential crises, didn’t he? His lack of sleep and the heaviness building up inside him. Well, he’s got it now. Because this  _boy._  This boy is all he can ever bloody think about. So yeah, he’s well and truly distracted. And also fucked.

“We’re on the same wavelength, yeah? This is good for us? The way we are?”

Louis resists the urge to snort.

The universe is laughing at him, and to be honest, he could laugh manically about now, too. Instead he bites his cheek, face muscles fighting to plaster on a genuine smile.

Because according to Harry, this is just a form of mutual, consensual relief and comfort between friends—in the form of sex, and kissing, and cuddling, and sharing a bed.

Louis briefly screws his eyes shut tight when Harry glances down at his lips. “Yeah. We’re on the same page, Harry.”

He hopes he sounds somewhat convincing. Because Louis knows for sure now.

They are absolutely  _not_  on the same page. Not anymore.

Fun and easy has now ventured into the realms of highly stressful and foolishly smitten.

It feels as though Louis’ already reaching the last paragraph of the last few chapters, while Harry’s way behind, still on the first passage of the middle pages and not even attempting to catch up. They might even be reading a different book at this point. Completely different genres, too.

Fuck. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This is miserable. How can Harry not be feeling what Louis’ feeling? It feels impossible that he’s on his own in this. This is way more than a fucking ‘distraction’ now. For both of them. It has to be. God, can he delete that word from existence? He’s stupid for even thinking this arrangement would work out. Stupid for calling it that. Stupid for thinking Harry wouldn’t soon manage to bury himself deep under his skin, carve his way into his cells and sink his own into his bloodstream.

This idea was doomed from the moment Louis started worrying out the other boy’s well being.

Which was pretty much instant, to be honest. (He really should have seen this coming.)

Harry snuggles further into his side, content and drowsy, his arm draped across Louis’ torso. “Let’s sleep now, yeah?”

“Okay,” Louis replies helplessly.

“Night, Lou,” he sighs.

“Night, Harry.”

He stays excruciatingly awake all night, pretending to be asleep when Harry shifts in his hold in the morning. Even when he begins to kiss down the expanse of Louis’ chest to wake him, determinedly ignoring the sharp pang he leaves with each press of his dry lips that drag over his prickling skin.

**

“I mean it. There’s something to this ghost in the bakery,” Perrie insists, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, her hair pulled up in a tight ponytail, her eyelids swept with electric blue eyeshadow, sat beside him with their backs propped up against the bookcase of the Psychology section.

Louis gives her a brief nonplussed look, then goes back to his doodling, the ball of his pen swirling aimlessly atop his notebook resting in his lap. He’s meant to be drafting his essay, but he’s more interested in the petals of the rose he’s presently sketching.

Roses seem to be his thing at the moment.

“And no, before you ask, we were not drunk.”

Louis snorts.

“Or _high,_ alright?” she whispers, eyes narrowed.

Louis smirks.

“I hadn’t touched a drop,” Perrie continues to protest, her textbook completely disregarded now, halfway down her legs. “We were all still there— _sober_ —at, like, seven in the evening, yeah? I stayed behind a bit because it was Leigh-Anne’s turn to close up shop,” Perrie pauses, hushing her voice down to a loud whisper, leaning in close. Louis resists the urge to snigger, “and I swear on my life, one of the iced buns flew right across the fucking counter.”

Louis abruptly lets out a cackle.

She really should have expected it, but Perrie still jumps out of her skin. She smacks his knee, brows furrowed. “Louis,” she hisses. “I almost wet myself.”

He puts his hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh further when a few heads scattered around them in the library shoot them mildly annoyed looks. “Oh, come on, that’s ridiculous. You were clearly under the influence. What the hell was in those ice buns?”

Perrie glares. “Right. I’ll take you next time, and let’s see how you like your bladder tested. You’ll be pissing yourself. I’m even bringing a Ouija board.”

“Ooh!” Louis sings, exaggeratedly rolling his eyes, grinning. “Alright, fine.” He clears his throat, putting on a fake manner of stunned interest. “I have to say, I never would have guessed ghosts still have a craving for sugary snacks. You sure it wasn’t Niall as a ghost? Call him, quick! Is he alright?”

She tuts. Louis shakes his head, amused as he continues with his doodling. As he sits though, pen gliding against the paper, he can feel Perrie’s eyes studying him for a prolonged amount of time, before he’s had enough, meeting her pondering gaze with a faint sense of apprehension.

“You know Luke?” she begins slowly, her eyes trained on his eyes carefully.

He sighs. “Luke Warner?” Because, yes. Louis looked him up on Facebook and Instagram to find out his last name, at least, since he seems to be at the center of this guy’s affections at the moment. Too bad he’s not interested in anyone else’s lips but Harry’s these days.

Perrie nods. She waits a few more beats to speak again, fiddling with her pen between her long blue fingernails. “Well, you know he’s desperate to ask you out, right?” she says warily.

Louis sighs, looking up from his notebook. “I had an inkling," he says wryly. He's a very persistent guy.

“Has he asked you out?”

“Not directly,” he answers, bored. “Yet, I guess."

"I can't imagine Harry would be too pleased if he knew, eh?" Perrie gives his arm a nudge.

“Right,” he says, curt.

They both quiet.

“Am I allowed to ask how things are progressing there?” she attempts to ask coyly. She’s not subtle with her digging. “You’ve been attached at the hip recently. Even more so than usual.”

Louis gives her a look.

Perrie’s face softens, head tilted. “Are you going to talk to him, Lou?”

Louis shakes his head, shading in his rose a little more aggressively. “No need.”

“So you are exclusive?” Perrie lights up. “Niall owes me a fiver.”

Louis ceases his shading and drops his pen. “No,” he almost laughs. “Harry... he doesn’t want that. Well,” he pauses, confused himself now. Because are they? He knows they’re not actually dating or anything, but are they only sleeping with each other? Is that a thing? “I’m not sure. We’ve not really mentioned that.”

Huh. That is a good question.

“Are you serious? Have you seen Harry’s face when other people are touching you,” Perrie snorts. “The other night, Liam was holding your hand and Harry looked like he was ready to chop his off in the middle of the dancefloor,” she laughs.

Okay, so it is obvious to other people who are not Louis, then. “Yeah, um. I have noticed.”

Perrie’s looking at him like she’s waiting for him to elaborate.

“That he might be a bit jealous when other guys are giving me, um,” he clears his throat, “attention. There was this guy in the museum the other day, and he wasn’t exactly subtle about flirting with me at the till. Harry was throwing him a death look. He ended up shoving me against the wall outside and snogged my face off. It was awesome, actually,” he chuckles. “Ended up with colossal lovebite on my neck.”

“Yeah,” Perrie says, eyeing his neck impishly. “I can see that. It still hasn’t even faded completely yet. Tops it up, does he? Possessive boyfriend behaviour much,” she sniggers as she gets back to writing.

Louis swallows thickly. He stares at his doodle, mindlessly sketching a dagger through it. He shades in the gemstone on the hem in red biro. “He’s not _that_.”

“What?” Perrie flicks his wrist. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be his  _boyfriend_ ,” she sings, fluttering her eyelashes ridiculously.  

He doesn’t deny it.

Fuck.

Perrie sobers, her teasing smile slipping into a more sympathetic look. "Come on. Let's go get a shot of strong caffeine, shall we? I think we deserve it," she says, smirking at Louis' rose and dagger drawing.

They pack up their things, walking arm in arm out of the library and follow the road into town. They find a coffee shop and settle down with their orders, snuggled against the cushioned seating at the back.

“I don't want to be that nagging friend, Lou," Perrie says after a while, chin resting on his shoulder, her arm looped through his, "but you do need to tell Harry how you feel soon, or you’re both gonna end up really hurt," she says gently. “And I know who I reckon is going to get the brunt of it. I’m completely out of mint chocolate chip so don’t get heartbroken before I’ve stocked up, yeah?” she tries to joke but her face isn’t teasing in the slightest. It’s pitying. Louis hates it.

“I know I do,” Louis breathes helplessly, just as his eyes fall to a boy that he recognises with an unpleasant jolt. “You have got to me kidding me,” he gapes.

“What is it?” Perrie frowns, following Louis’ hard line of vision to where Mikael stands by the hand-off counter, conversing idly with the now beaming barista behind it. She didn't smile for Louis like that, he thinks with an angry pout.

“Hopefully nothing,” Louis hopes, eyes trained on the boy he wants to give a fucking frank piece of his mind to. Or chuck his things on top of the university roof. Because shit. Does this kid go  _here_ now? He can’t do? He wouldn’t be that much of bastard as to follow Harry to a new university, can he? Where Harry has settled? Where he’s happy? (Well. Happy-ish.)

Fuck no.

Louis watches Mikael stroll back out the shop like he hasn’t got a care in the world, a cup in his hand, caught up by a few others who grin at him eagerly, practically hanging off him and humping his leg.

(It's sickening.)

But instead of telling Harry what he saw later that evening, when they’re stuffing their faces with popcorn and binge watching the new season of Brooklyn Nine Nine on Netflix, Louis bites the bullet.

He has to know.

So he asks the question.

Well.

A question. (Damn it.)

“Harry?” he asks tentatively, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, because, fuck, he is absolutely bricking it right now.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, shoulders slumped and relaxed, his hair sticking up like static, and his tongue endearingly, prematurely stuck out to receive more popcorn before he’s already finished chewing the bits still in his mouth. Louis stares at him for a bit, entirely hypnotised by Harry’s eating etiquette. Fuck, Louis really has it bad. His palms are sweating, and his forehead isn’t much better now. God, the heating being on is only making him feel worse. He’s nauseous, excruciatingly so. He just wants to know.

Why is this so hard?

He clears his throat, which is so dry at this point, he almost starts choking on the spot.

“We're good with how we are, yeah?”

"Yeah," Harry drawls, shooting him a brief smile. Louis melts.

"But, um."

Harry sends him another glance.

"Are we exclusive?" he blurts out in a rapid hustle.

There’s a short, stilted silence, and then Harry begins eating again. Slowly. Unnervingly slowly. Louis gulps, eyes unable to look away from him. “What do you mean?” Harry says, tone cautious.

“Like, I know we're just... doing what we are," he gestures awkwardly, "but, uh, are we hooking up with other people, too, or... are we allowed to date while,” Louis flicks a finger between them, “you know. While _this_  is happening.”

Harry stops the mechanical movements of his hand retrieving popcorn from the large ceramic bowl in his lap, and stares at him. He seems kind of taken aback. Louis waits. 

“Why? Are _you_ doing that?” he asks hesitantly, voice strange. "Are you seeing other people, too?"

“No, no!” Louis urgently informs him. “No," he laughs nervously. "I’m not. Doing that. No.”

Harry’s shoulders seem to relax again, loosening dramatically from the stiff way they froze up just seconds ago. Okay. So he clearly did not like the idea of that. Louis thinks it’s safe to assume Harry hasn’t been seeing other people either. And when would he even have the time? He’s barely ever out of Louis’ bed, apart from when they’re attending lectures or studying. They even eat their dinner together, without fail, for Christ’s sake.

“But, um. The reason I’m asking is, uh. Luke asked Perrie for my number.”

And Harry’s back to seizing up again, mouth twisted in a grimace. Louis’ heart quickens.

“Oh.”

“He wants to take me out. Like. On a date.”

“Right,” Harry breathes, face unreadable.

“I’m not saying I want to or anything,” he rushes out. “But hypothetically... is that an okay thing in this situation?” he cringes as his voice gets higher pitched. Jesus, this is stressful.

Please say it’s not okay. Tell him no. Shout. Get mad. Do something. Say Louis is the only one Harry wants to be with. 

“Yeah, fine,” Harry answers casually, like he hasn’t just made Louis’ heart burst like an overzealously pumped balloon.

“I’m sorry?”

“If you want to go on a date, do it. I don’t bloody own you, do I?” Harry laughs, but it’s stiff. Nothing like his usual, effortless laughs that stem from gorgeously wide smiles. This one is forced. In fact, there’s no humour in it at all. “Were not— _togethe_ r,” he says lightly, but Louis could swear he hears a crack in the middle of the word. Or it’s Louis’ laughably desperate optimism that he could be wrong. That Harry does want more,but is too afraid to let them be.

No, it’s wishful thinking. Harry would say so if he wanted him to be _his_. Right?

“I mean, I don’t want to, anyway,” he still has to assure Harry, his voice almost breaking in the process, “but you wouldn’t mind?” Louis tries not to look like Harry’s just stabbed him in the chest.

“Why would I mind?” Harry simply smiles. Louis doesn’t. He just sits there in silence, terribly conscious of their arms still pressed together, Harry still eating popcorn until he finishes the bowl. And Louis sits there. Not saying a word, only feeling more annoyed and disheartened and... rejected? Yeah, Harry might has well have outright said this thing means nothing to him, that it doesn’t mean anything  _more_  to him in any romantic sense at all. Of course he knows Harry cares about him in other ways. That he values him as a friend. That they _are_  friends. They’re close at least. Really close, now.

But anything more?

No, it’s just Louis in this.

But Louis understands. He knows Harry letting himself jump into something serious, real, is a sore spot. It's difficult for him, after what happened with Mikael. And Louis knows this, he gets it. He wants Harry to feel safe, comfortable. He wants him to trust Louis implicitly. He can’t be selfish with this.

Doesn’t mean it hurts any less, though.

“Okay,” Louis finally says after ages, glancing at Harry slumped against the pillow, his legs curled up to his chest and his elbow propped up against his cheek, eyes downcast and being very, very quiet. It sends a flare of annoyance through him. “I’m gonna go make tea. Do you want one?” The offer comes out more curt than he meant it to sound. But he doesn’t really care much right now.

He’s wounded, and he’s going to milk it.

“No, thanks,” Harry murmurs, barely. His voice blank, faraway.

Louis frowns at the other boy’s impassiveness. “Right,” he says and huffs out a sigh, making his way into the kitchen where Perrie is sat, a slew of paper everywhere, her laptop taking up half the table as she stares at the screen with squinted, concentrated eyes.

She’s so engrossed in her assignments, she doesn’t even look up when Louis walks in. But she knows he’s there.

“Trouble in paradise?” she says distractedly, her gaze firmly glued to the bright glow of the screen.

“Harry’s completely fine with me seeing other people,” Louis mutters, more venomously than he intended on that sounding, too.

Perrie’s eye whip over to him. “Oh, come on. That can’t be right,” she half-laughs. Her face is serious, though.

“Well, it is,” he whispers, disregarding the kettle in favour of plonking himself down at the table.

“Did you tell him?”

“No,” Louis scoffs.

“Louis,” Perrie chides.

“What? There’s no point. He’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t have any intention of being with me properly. This is a temporary arrangement between friends and that’s it. He doesn’t want a relationship. He’s not ready. He’s scared. Which is exactly what he’s told me a million times already,” he sighs tetchily. “He tells me over and over and I still don’t listen. Jesus, what is wrong with me?” He slumps onto the table and buries his face in his folded arms.

“You’re both being absolute idiots, that’s what’s wrong,” Perrie mutters, her tone exasperated. “I don’t have time for your inability to share your feelings, god. Let me finish this essay in peace and maybe then I’ll knock your arses into gear.”

Louis knows full well this is his cue to leave. He abandons the thought of tea and heads off to Niall and Liam’s, intending on wallowing at the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniels.

**

The next few hours pass by in a blur of whiskey in plastic cups (since the glasses have mysteriously disappeared, according to Niall—when really he’s just not bothered to switch on the dishwasher), an overly serious attempt at Monopoly that ended in Niall storming off and taking the pieces with him, and several awkward attempts at gearing the conversation away from Harry.

“Are you _sure_ you’re not dating Harry?” Liam says now, a confused frown on his face.

“Yes, Liam. I think I would know if I was,” Louis retorts.

“You might not, though,” Niall adds. “You might have been dating all this time, just fell into it and neither of you realised. It happens,” he shrugs on a burp.

“No, trust me. We are not dating. It’s just—comfort sex,” he sighs, mouth twisting into a sad frown as he buries himself deeper amongst the pizza stained pillows, a detail he’s sure Liam doesn’t know about.

“Mmhmm,” Niall hums. He knows Niall thinks otherwise, that Harry wants more but is telling Louis the opposite for some ridiculous reason Louis doesn’t understand. But Louis can’t be bothered to defend himself. “Just be careful,” he mumbles, staring at his nails.

“What was that?” Louis says warily.

“Right. Food,” Niall abruptly announces, as he rolls off the sofa and begins to crawl on his knees toward the kitchen island.

Louis snorts. “You’ve got nothing in. I already checked your fridge.”

“Chinese it is, then.” Niall sits on the floor and gets out his phone, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

Liam kicks Louis’ leg, yawning obnoxiously. “So what’s the deal with this Mikael?” he bluntly asks, tipsily sprawled on the sofa of his and Niall’s unforgivably neat flat with his hood up, and a serious, confused crease between his brows.

And Louis is far too drunk to answer this unemotionally. Especially when he’s still pissed off with the situation he’s got himself into with Harry. And then there’s the fact this isn’t his business to tell. It’s Harry’s, and he may be frustrated as hell with him right now but he’s still got his loyalty, probably permanently, so, yeah. Liam is getting  nothing out of him.

“You’ll have to ask Harry,” Louis snips, his lazy smile replaced with a hard frown. His head is starting to ache at the mention of him.

“It’s just, I bumped into him today, and he said he was looking for Harry.”

Louis shoots up into a sitting position from lying between Liam’s legs, gripping onto his knees. “He what? Where was this? What did you tell him?” he urges, his brain and stomach swishing unpleasantly at the thought Mikael might have found him already.

“Nothing!” Liam assures, gesticulating robustly. “He stopped me on the high street. I guess he must have seen us lot hanging out and realised we’re all friends.”

“Probably remembered you from the auction.”

“What? He was there?”

“Harry almost fell off the stage when he saw him.”

“Oh,” Liam frowns. “Well, I didn’t have a clue who he was. He seemed a bit overly keen to find Harry, anyway.”

Yeah, bet he was.

“I didn’t get a great vibe from, so I said I was in a rush, and I’d give him a mention to Harry, and got out of there because he was this close to pulling me back to get a solid answer.”

Louis scoffs loudly. “The fuck is he playing at,” he mutters angrily, more to himself as he knocks back the last of his whiskey. He groans and throws himself back down. “What is his problem? What’s he even here for? Please tell me he’s not enrolled here now?”

“Uh, I don’t know. He didn’t have a bag or a rucksack, or anything. So, maybe not?”

“I hope not. He’s put Harry through enough shit. If he doesn’t stay away from him, I'll fucking punch his-”

“Alright, calm down, mate,” Liam laughs nervously. He sits up, climbing on top of Louis and squeezes him tight. “I’m sure Harry can take care of himself.”

“This guy, Liam. He’s a prick.”

“I believe you.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, eyelids drooping. Shit. He shouldn’t sleep here. He wonders if Harry has noticed he’s not come home yet. He wonders if he cares. He’s got no new messages... “’s the time?”

Liam checks his watch. “Just after three,” he yawns.

“Shit. I gotta go," Louis slurs. "Yeah. I’m gonna go stagger home, then, Li. Thank you kindly for the drinks.” He gives a stupid, exaggerated bow.

Liam frowns, tugging Louis back down when he attempts to stand up, extremely unsteady.

“Oof,” he says as he lands on top of Liam’s crotch.

“You’re drunk, Lou. Just sleep here,” he whines.

Louis rolls off the sofa, rather gracefully, if he does say so himself, and out of Liam’s tight grip. “Can’t,” he slurs. “Have to see Harry. Gotta speak to him.”

“Can’t that wait until morning?”

“No,” he whines. “I need to go now. Tell Niall thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“But it’s dark. You’re drunk.”

“You already said that. And it’s literally a five minute walk away. I’m a big boy.”

Liam pouts and protests some more, but Louis manages to get home, almost tripping on his face when he gets inside because the lights are all off, but he’s made it in one piece, at least. He crawls in, essentially in the dark, too tired to stand back up, find a light switch and walk like a human being, when he’s suddenly hit with a sneezing fit as he goes. Alcohol really clogs up his sinuses. It’s highly unpleasant.

He thinks he’s made it to his door when it opens abruptly, and he’s greeted with a pair of purple socks, the unbelievably bright light of the room assaulting his vision. God, is this fucking Mount Olympus? Why is everything so bright?

Louis lifts his head up unsteadily, feeling like it’s about to roll off his damn neck. “This is my room,” he squints. “Isn’t it?”

He’s met with silence as a rumpled Harry stares down at him, arms crossed, face unimpressed.

“Nope.”

“Oh,” Louis nods. “Onwards we go then, Louis!” he yells with a fist in the air, drunk as fuck, about to crawl back to his own room (wherever the hell that is) when he’s suddenly, rudely dragged backwards by the waist and hoisted up uncomfortably, someone’s hands now resting under his armpits as he tries to make himself dead weight, because how very dare they?

“Unhand me, swine!” He thrashes around until he realises it’s Harry again, and he’s deposited him back to Louis’ own bed, already removing his shoes and tugging off his denim jacket.

He starts on his jeans and Louis pouts, but lets him do the difficult honours, frowning at the other boy, who’s wearing a matching tired frown himself as he pulls off his jeans a little more roughly than Louis thinks is necessary.

Harry says nothing, so Louis watches Harry hang up his clothes with rapidly drooping eyelids and rolls onto his tummy when he’s had enough of that excitement, mouth getting a load of pillow.

He’s turned back over. “Sleep on your side. You’ll choke if you get sick.”

Louis blinks his eyes open and stays on his side, met with Harry’s scrutinizing gaze. He looks mad. “Jesus Christ,” he groans on a half-attempted eye roll. “I feel like I’m being chastised by my fucking husband.”

“Well, where the hell were you?” 

“Excuse me?” Louis glares, incredulous. “I wasn’t aware I needed your permission to go out, sweetheart.”

“I tried to call you.”

“You did not.”

“Yes. I did,” Harry argues. “Four times.”

Louis shakes his head, because he knows for a fact there wasn’t a single message from Harry on his phone. “Where is it?” he slurs, patting himself down clumsily.

Harry sighs, searching through Louis’ jeans and pulls out his phone, thrusting it into Louis’ face.

Oh.

It indeed does say: HARRY: FOUR MISSED CALLS.

He must have looked at Liam’s phone by mistake. He is drunk.

“Okay. Sorry, I didn’t realise. I thought you hadn’t,” he grumbles, folding himself up and curling his legs to his chest. He feels Harry sits beside his socked feet on the mattress and risks a glance his way.

Harry looks... upset. Agitated.

“Harry, I’m sorry,” he says again, more sincerely. “I didn’t mean to ignore you. I didn’t—wait, what’s wrong?”

“I tried to call you,” he whispers.

“I know, and I’m sorry I didn’t pick up—“

“Mikael came by.”

Louis sits up so fast, he gets a head rush. He grips Harry’s ankle regardless of his woozy demeanour right now. “What? When?”

“About half an hour after you left.”

“But you didn’t let him in?”

“No. Perrie got rid of him for me. I could hear him in the hallway. He was trying to charm his way past her, all flirty and fucking smarmy. Obviously Perrie saw right through it.” Harry looks over at him. “I needed you, that's all," he says quietly, eyes falling to the floor.

Louis opens his mouth to speak, then sighs frustratedly as he lands his face in Harry’s lap. But to his surprise, Harry doesn’t push him off. He slips his fingers into his hair instead, carding slowly through the strands. “I’m sorry, H,” he says into his thigh, muffled.

“You’ve said that a few times, already,” Harry murmurs, and Louis feels looser, relaxed a bit by the smile he can hear in his voice. He lifts up and looks at him, rueful lips parted. One of Harry’s fingers stops him from uttering another apology, pressing against his mouth. “Shush.”

He smiles. Tiredly. But it’s there.

Louis loosens more. “I, uh, I was with Niall and Liam. At their flat.”

“I figured," Harry nods.

“I was a while.”

“Five hours.”

“Oh,” Louis drawls deeply.

“Yup.”

“H—” He tilts his head slightly.

“No, it’s okay," Harry shakes his head, holding up a hand. "I’m the one who should be sorry for being such a grumpy sod earlier. And I know I’m not entitled to your whereabouts at all hours,” he laughs awkwardly. “Obviously. That would just be creepy."

"A bit," Louis agrees, smiling weakly. "But you are. Do you know what you look like when you stare at me?" he teases.

Harry whacks him. "Dick." He pauses. "I was just a bit rattled that he actually came here... That he found out where my dorm was. Fuck knows who told him.”

Louis tuts at himself. “I should have been here for you, though. I’m your friend,” he pouts. He would have been. Right there next to him on the bed. If he hadn't dramatically wandered off to drown his sorrows and unrequited love.

Um.

“Who has other friends, too, and isn’t supposed to be glued to my side at all hours of the day,” Harry continues, smiling at him gently.

“No,” Louis protests with a whine, “but I like being with you. Who cares if it’s an excessive amount? I didn't know there was a meter for it,” he grumbles.

Harry huffs out a laugh.

“Really, though. I hope you know when I’m sober I’m gonna be a lot more angry about this. We’re gonna talk about this guy’s lack of boundaries and possible stalker tendencies in the morning.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” Harry breathes, apologetic, swiping Louis’ sweaty fringe across his forehead.

Louis cringes. His hair is a tad greasy and he probably stinks of whiskey and the outdoors. He’s an inebriated mess. “Don’t,” he swats at Harry’s hand.” I’m gross. Probably smell like a mixture of outside, sweat and a brewery.”

“You don’t,” Harry whispers. “You always smell nice to me.”

Louis snorts. Loud and unattractive. “Harry, I honestly smell bloody terrible right now, so that’s bullshit,” he deadpans, falling into giggles.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, chuckling softly as he leans in and connects their lips. They kiss lazily for a bit, just lips smudging lips lightly, before Harry’s then pulling back the covers and throwing them over Louis, tucking his legs in and setting his Vans by his drawers.

“Wait. Where are you going?” Louis asks, in a manner that he considers cute enough for Harry to climb back into bed again.

“You want me to stay?” the other boy replies, despite his feet already making his way back over to the bed and kneeling on top, and like he doesn’t sleep in his bed every night now, anyway.

“Of course I do. Always do,” Louis mumbles drowsily, sleep almost taking him with it. “Would never not want you to.”

“Okay,” he hears Harry whisper as he sneaks his arms around his waist, moulding his front to Louis’ back for a change. It’s nice to be the little spoon once in awhile, Louis thinks fuzzily, leaning back into Harry’s warmth and his steadying embrace, drifting off with the shell of his cold ear being brushed by Harry’s familiar, warm lips. “I’ll hold you to that,” he thinks he hears Harry say as he finally falls asleep.

**

Louis’ packing up his things at the end of his lecture, (which awkwardly contained a few too many glances aimed his way from Luke again, who was unfortunately situated directly opposite Louis on the other side of the theatre) half-panicked about what the hell he’s going to focus on for his presentation, too crammed with information to sort through everything clearly and settle on a particular subject when his back pocket buzzes, making him jolt.

But not out of surprise. It’s excitement.

He’s grinning before he’s even slid his thumb across the screen.

_Coming home yet? x_

Louis simultaneously smirks at Harry’s blatant neediness and kind of has a mini heart attack over the fact Harry refers to their dorms—perhaps specifically Louis’ room—as _home_.

Jesus.  _Pitter patter_  goes his heartbeat.

But, you know. Technically, it is. So it’s not really a big deal. It doesn’t _mean_  anything. Even if it does feel like his pulse is lodged in his throat as his heart constricts tightly, his thighs suddenly feeling like jelly.

_**You’re a clingy bastard. Are you aware of this fact?** _

_Terribly x_

_**No, you are. Terrible** _

_Just get back here!! I’ve finished one of my essays already and I deserve a reward! ;) xxxx_

He smiles, pressing his phone back into his pocket.

They ended up skirting over the fact that Mikael had turned up at their dorms, as Harry woke up in a good mood, determined not to bring up that subject and pressed close to him as they walked to uni, both clearly harbouring unspoken whims and worries that Mikael might appear out of nowhere and announce he goes here now too, but they haven’t brought him up again.

Not that they’ve had much of a chance to talk properly. They’ve dialled back their dalliances a bit over the last few days to concentrate on being good students and get some of their deadlines done before they both collapse of stress and anxiety—Harry especially needs to get ahead to save him from more unnecessary panic and distress. So they agreed to lock their doors and not see each other until they’d each met their word counts.

Minus the flirty texts, of course. And Harry never leaves his texts kiss-less. He's too cute.

_Oh, actually, meet you for coffee instead? xx_

_**That was a quick change of heart...** _

_I can hear sex noises coming from somewhere and I can’t deal with the volume... it sounds like someone’s being murdered... i’m scared, Lou x_

_**Jesus but imagine what they go through with us!!!** _

_I will be celibate for the foreseeable future to pay for my sins x_

_**You fucking liar** _

_You’re right about that, sweetcheeks ;) xxxxxxxx_

Louis pocketed his phone and swung his bag over his shoulder, Harry’s texts warm in his bones, setting off to see the one thing keeping him sane these days, even though he’s growing quickly more attached, more besotted with every passing day. Self-inflicted masochism is in his blood, it seems. Yeah, he’s still severely confused and anxious about his growing feelings for Harry but the good outweighs the bad in this case. For now, at least.

His back pocket vibrates again, then several more times in a row. Louis grins to himself as he hurriedly bounces down the lecture hall's steps and out the door.

**

The bitter air gushes inside as Louis steps back over the threshold, hair tangled from the wind, and onto the burgundy flooring, greeted with the familiar golden shimmer of the fairy lights, strung along the russet bricks, weaving between the frames of classic alternative bands that adorn the walls, and the usual stark scent of coffee beans and the whirring vibrations of the machines.

And there in the corner, looking very small and folded inwards, is Harry. Whom was breathing childlike giggles of greeting into his mouth not even an hour ago, pulling him down onto the sofa (and touching him highly inappropriately for such a public place) as though he was being reunited with him after years apart.

But Louis almost immediately had to dash away again to pop to the library to print out some photocopies for his research, leaving a pouting Harry for a bit while he did some reading and worked on some of his final sketches for his main assignment.

Louis stops in his tracks, eyes sliding to Harry perched on the edge of the sofa, his brows pulled tightly together and mouth twisted into a grimace. His arms are crossed over his chest like a petulant toddler’s. It’s cute but, there’s obviously something wrong.

“Harry?” He walks over to him, pulled to him like a magnet, and plonks himself next to him, immediately putting his arm around Harry’s shoulders. Harry tenses at his touch. Louis frowns. “What’s the matter?”

Harry’s relents, leaning into his side, and winding a loose arm around his back, fingers pressing into his shoulder blade. "You took too long,” he says in a disgruntled tone.

Louis is endeared and lets out a short chuckle. “Sorry, love. There was a massive queue.”

Harry remains quiets, lips pursed, face squished against him.

“Hey? Are you alright?” he asks softly. "You know you can tell me." He’s noticed his voice always seems to go unbelievably soft and raspy around Harry these days. Well. Perrie noticed, at least, and she won’t let it go, insisting that it’s his "boyfriend voice". Louis would rather not think about that idea.

Harry gives him a half-hearted shrug. “Not feeling so great right now,” he says quietly.

“Oh,” Louis hums in sympathy, pulling Harry closer to his chest, engulfing him with his arms and letting them fall back into the sofa, a faint sound of amusement from Harry. “Is it anything to do with home? Is it your parents?”

Harry’s nose brushes against Louis’ neck as he shakes his head. “No, it’s not that.”

Louis sits up, a prominent frown of concern forming on his face as Harry pulls back at bit, staring down into his lap and rubbing the pads of his fingers together mindlessly.

“It wasn’t Mikael, was it? Is he bothering you? Has he tried to talk to you, or something?” Louis says, a bit overly impassioned, urgent. He has to ask. Even if it’s a topic that needs to be trod across carefully.

“No,” Harry insists. “I haven’t see him, thankfully.”

“Oh,” Louis exhales, relieved. “Good.”

He shuffles closer, but stays leaning against the back of the sofa, not wanting to crowd Harry, who defeats Louis’ intention, anyway, and slumps back into Louis’ side. But still, Harry stays quiet and Louis waits, getting more confused.

“Do you want to talk about what is bothering you?”

Harry shakes his head, resuming his nosing at the crook of Louis’ neck, lips downturned and inhaling him, it seems like. Louis just hugs him tighter, waiting for Harry to open up if he wants to.

“Um,” Harry clears his throat after a bit, “someone was asking about you earlier. Not that long ago, actually,” he mumbles dully. He’s not looking at Louis as he speaks, still staring into his lap almost impassively.

Oh. That’s not what he was expecting him to say.

“Okay...” Louis repeats more slowly. “Who was that?”

“Some guy,” he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, releasing himself from Louis’ hold completely now and creating some distance between them. Louis frowns, unhappy with Harry’s shift in position.

“Do you want to elaborate further by any chance?” Louis chuckles lightly.

“Not particularly.”

Okay, then.

“Why not?”

Harry heaves out a heavy sigh. “Does it matter?” His tone is prickly, irritated.

“Uh, yeah, kinda,” Louis snorts. Harry continues to stare at his lap. “Or not. What’s got you so stroppy?” he nudges.

“I’m not being stroppy,” Harry protests immediately, turning to look at him at last. His eyes are surly.

“Oh, no, of course not. My mistake,” Louis scoffs. “You’re a barrel of laughs today. A right comedian.”

Harry practically glares.

"Alright, maybe it doesn't matter, then," Louis sighs, rolling his eyes and widening his legs, tipping his head back because this is exhausting.

There’s a tense stretch of silence as they stubbornly sit there, both glowering as they wait for the other to speak.

“Okay, fine,” Harry relents. “It was Luke.”

“Luke?” Louis asks confusedly. “Why didn't you just say, then?”

“No, not the person we live with. Another Luke. From the club that time, apparently?” Harry explains, albeit begrudgingly. “He—“ he exhales. “He basically made it clear he was into you and asked me whether or not you were single,” he rushes out in one quick mumble.

Oh. _Oh._

“Ah, that Luke.”

Oh, dear. He did seem to be into Louis that time in the library, and well, he’s gone out of his way to like his Instagram posts first which is a bit... well, eager, and he’s always saying hello brightly when he’s around campus. And today... he was very... preoccupied with Louis’ presence.  

And he’s nice. He’s cute, but... Harry is right _here_ , and there just really isn’t any competition whatsoever, is there? It’s Harry over anyone. Every time. 

Only Harry.

Could it actually be the same for Harry, too?

“What did you tell him?” he asks nonchalantly, attempting to hide his desperate curiosity. Because he’s really bloody interested to know what Harry’s response is to someone asking him—the guy he happens to be currently sleeping with—if Louis is available. And then there’s also the fact that Harry, presently, is fidgeting an awful lot, his shoulders stiff and his brows still heavily furrowed.

So he’s clearly uncomfortable with someone else expressing interest in Louis.

Extremely moody about it, apparently. He’s literally seconds away from huffing and puffing over this development, that he’s not the only person attracted to, or interested in Louis.

And it’s giving Louis _thoughts_. Stupidly hopeful and optimistic thoughts. A ridiculous thrill runs through him.

Because Louis thinks he knows where this going.

Oh, please, let this be going where Louis thinks it is.

Harry stares at a section of the wall.

“Harry?” Louis prompts, just as Harry asks, “Do you like him?” He’s looking at Louis now, cloudy eyes searching his face closely.

“Um. Yeah. He’s alright. He’s... nice. A friendly guy,” he settles on, catching the way Harry’s eyes flicker with something he can’t place.

He nods slowly, lips pressed together, quiet.

Except, it’s not something Louis can’t place, is it?

It’s the glaringly obvious fact that Harry appears to be jealous.

“He thinks you are, too. He really likes you. I could tell.” Harry’s not looking at him, eyes somewhere behind the counter at the front of the shop, body even more rigid than before, tense.

The air is tense, too. They’re balancing precariously on the edge of something here. Finally.

Oh, god. Please, can this be it? Can they have  _the_  conversation now?

But before that, Louis just needs to try something. Just to see. To make sure.

“Okay, well, maybe I should give it a shot, then?” he says. “If he likes me, and if you think so, too. I mean, you said it was fine, right? For us to see other people, too.”

That makes Harry whip his head up, eyes wide. 

_Hope, hope, hope._

“You’re actually gonna go out with him?” he blurts incredulously, mouth forming a significant pout.

Louis shrugs. “Well... we need to stop this thing we’re doing at some point, right?” he says, testing the waters further. The words taste dire as he says them. And this is a dangerous game he’s playing. He feels a twinge of doubt, of uncertainty. Maybe he shouldn’t have said this. Especially because Harry’s face twists into a pained grimace.

Oh, shit. God.

“We need to stop sleeping together, you mean?”

Louis forces himself to nod slowly, confidently, gauging his reaction as he sits up and rests his arms on his knees, nibbling on his bottom lip nervously, his insides coming apart.

Harry’s grimace becomes more prominent still, etched in confusion, hurt. Louis waits, heart in his throat.

“But—well—which part? The actual sleeping together or us fucking, too?” Harry questions bluntly, his pale cheeks instantly reddening in embarrassment that he actually said it.

Louis’ heart stutters, his eyes widening in surprise. He chokes out a laugh. “Harry,” he says, scoffing.

Harry continues to frown until it deepens into a fierce scowl. He slumps back into the sofa, arms crossed and legs closed together.

Encouraged by Harry's strong reaction to this little lie, (because obviously Louis has no intention of going out with anyone else) Louis decides to dare to push further. (At his own peril, he sincerely hopes not.)

“Hey,” he says with fake cheer, like this isn’t a scenario that would probably tear Louis into pieces, and make him fantasise about climbing atop a ledge, sneaking his fingers along the inside of his thigh. Harry zeroes in on his hand. “We’re not in a relationship. It was just supposed to be fun, remember? And you seem happier now, anyway. You’re painting properly again... we—we should stop, Harry." He inwardly winces at his own words.

“Is that what you want?” Harry asks, quiet, staring blankly ahead, clearly upset.

“Isn’t it what you want?” Louis prods, his limbs thrum with anticipation...

“I don’t—I don’t know what I want,” Harry whispers, torn.

And come to a screeching halt.

“Well, that’s very helpful, mate,” Louis jokes with a forced smile, still trying to sound teasing, rolling his eyes to diffuse to the regrettably strained ambiance that’s hit all of a sudden because of Louis’ stupid mouth.

Harry seems to be really taken aback by Louis’ suggestion they stop what they’re doing. God, surely this means he’s thinking about what they are now? What he wants Louis to be?

Harry’s frown deepens. “Don’t call me ‘mate’,” he all but growls.

“Christ, alright.” Fuck, he’s messed up, hasn’t he?

“It sounds weird. We have sex. We’re not ‘mates’,” he defends.

“But we  _are_  friends, though?” Louis points out, hurt. “And god, what is up with you? Are you jealous, or something?”

There. He's said it. A terrifying stretch of razor sharp silence fills the air.

“Okay, yes! Alright? I am,” Harry admits, cheeks pink as he stands up, throwing up his hands. “Is that what you wanted to hear? That I'm really fucking jealous and I—“ He stops, face crumpling.

“And what?” Louis exclaims, aware of a few pairs of eyes on the two of them now.

Harry’s blinking furiously, hastily gathering up his stuff. "Forget it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." He rubs a frustrated hand over his face, glancing at Louis with remorseful eyes.

“Harry, can you just talk to me? Please?” Louis asks softly, cursing his idiocy, for not saying what he really means, what he really feels.

“I’m tired. I’ll see you later." And with that, he stalks out of the door and into the blustery, late afternoon, the streetlamps starting to glow as the hours darken, a cool hue in the sky. Leaving Louis sitting motionless on the sofa, blinking after him with a thick heaviness in his throat.

The coffee machines screech. Louis can relate.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is it, phew. But this last chapter got so long that I ended up splitting it, so technically there's one more chapter after this one :)
> 
> This chapter features a scene from Harry's pov because I felt like it was needed (due to some possible, frustrating angst ahead). There's also references to anxiety and depression.
> 
> Hopefully the conclusion doesn't disappoint :) xx

 

Like the stubborn mule he is, Harry doesn’t emerge from his room all evening. Not for dinner, not to make tea, not even when Perrie knocks on his door, intending on luring him out by offering to braid his hair. (And Harry never turns that down if he can help it—despite it not being quite long enough to make decent enough plaits out of.)

So with disappointment soaking his bones, and resigning himself to the seemingly permanent, disheartened sense of longing plaguing his internal organs over this boy, (yeah, he’s hit a low point) he makes  _himself_ a tea, using Harry’s rainbow mug, (because it comforts him like the sad man he is) and settles into bed at a much earlier hour than usual, since he’s without a Harry to keep him entertained.

And isn't that just sad. 

(Not that he's going to get any sleep. He's not that optimistic.)

(He wonders if Harry will sleepwalk tonight. It’s barely an occurrence anymore, but maybe Harry’s unconscious mind will still seek Louis out.)

But he's got some more reading done in the time he hasn’t been spending kissing, touching, and generally drowning in everything to do with Harry. Which is one good thing, he supposes.

The _other_  good thing—the thing he really wants—is currently moping behind his dorm room door. Sulking, probably. Or... actually, might be, genuinely upset?

 _Shit_. What if he is? What if Harry's been miserable in there? Hopefully waiting for Louis to come to him? Or what if Harry feels like  _he_  can’t come to Louis?

No, that’s unacceptable. Even if they are kind of not talking right now.

Oh, god, Louis really misses Harry. He’s literally in the next room—only a thin wall of plaster lodged between them, and it’s only been a few  _hours_ for god's sake—six hours, in fact, almost seven now (not that he’s so obviously counting)—butgod, Louis _misses_  him.

This is getting properly pathetic now. If this was anyone else, Louis would be mocking them without mercy. 

He wonders if Harry misses  _him_ , if he’s even noticed that this might be the longest length of time they’ve gone without any contact since they started this whole bloody affair. Without even one attempted call, or one text sent by either of them.

It's horrid. It’s terrible.

Louis frowns at the ceiling as though it’s personally offended his expert tea-making skills, groaning in frustration as he turns over, facedown into his pillow. (Which remarkably smells like Harry.)

(The universe is taunting him at this point.)

(Curse this ghastly pillow. He will not be mocked by a sack of cotton. Is nothing free from the exquisite existence of Harry Styles? Sad Boy Artist Extraordinaire. Primary Thief of Louis' Brittle Heart? Ugh.)

Does Harry care at all?

Louis does. Far more than is probably healthy.

But Harry certainly cared enough to throw a petulant fit over someone else inquiring about Louis' relationship status, didn't he? Someone with no emotional, romantic feelings whatsoever for that person wouldn't react like that? Right? And definitely not that strongly. Harry was clearly _hurt_ thinking Louis was considering going out with someone that wasn't him.

When  _they_ aren’t even going out. Though, perhaps Harry doesn’t even know what to do with what he feels? After all, this was his idea to start with... Harry has persistently drummed it into Louis’ head that this wasn’t going to be anything serious. And Louis did too, to be fair. Stupid.

Maybe Harry’s changing his mind?

And if it was the other way around, Louis would absolutely tear his own hair out if another guy was into Harry—and would probably drunkenly attempt to climb onto something very high and risk a reckless jump off it. (Okay, so maybe that’s taking things spectacularly far, but it would feel fucking awful, he knows that much. Seeing that guy kiss Harry felt _wrong._ Like, only Louis’ lips were ever made to touch Harry’s.)

(He’s gonna ignore how sappy that sounds.)

So that settles it. This has gone on long enough. They have to bloody talk to each other. Even if Louis is scared shitless that the second he tells the truth of what he really feels for the other boy, it's all going to come to a crashing, abrupt end, and Harry will run a fucking mile.

Subtly is the way to go. Tread very timidly, Tomlinson. Very carefully, as to not scare the boy away.

(God. He's not sure if he can, but this a must. He has to  _try_ to get the words out. Or Louis is going to be hanging in Alone-And-Smitten-With-Harry Limbo for years at this rate.)

Louis whips off his duvet and pads to Harry’s room, intent on sorting whatever they’ve got themselves into, or else he definitely won’t be able to sleep—and he really has been sleeping a lot easier lately—especially when wrapped cosily around Harry.

Without him, though, he'd be back to square one in the sleeping pattern department. God, why is he such a needy sod now? His body has started to physically ache for Harry, like he’s missing something vital to his anatomic makeup. It would be nauseating, feeling so goddamn fragile if Louis wasn’t so fucking into him. But he  _wants_  to be into him. He doesn’t ever want to be in a universe where he doesn’t feel this way about Harry. 

Louis knocks four times, a rap-a-tap-tap. It’s  _their knock_ , a code of sorts, so they know they can pounce as soon as the door opens, (a smile tugs at Louis’ lips at all the times Harry’s blissful grin has greeted him, impatient hands hauling Louis in by his collar) without having to worry about the others and their prying eyes witnessing their brazenly passionate displays of insatiable lust.

Ugh. He misses him. Did he mention that? (Really. This is incredibly sad.)

Surprisingly, the door opens instantly, and Louis’ met with an alarming, vibrant mesh of  _colour,_ the strong scent of acrylic paint fumes flooding his nose.

Wow.

“Oh," Louis blinks. "Um, I’ll come back if you’re busy?”

“No, it’s okay,” Harry says, his eyes staying firmly locked on the canvas in front of him, held up by a wooden stand, a few more blank canvases stashed against the wall. He’s wearing a pair of wide-set black glasses, his hair a wild tangle of golden brown in the artificial light of his room.

Louis dreamily lets his Adam’s apple bob on a swallow, taking in the rest of his appearance as he tentatively steps over the threshold and into Harry’s typically concealed space. Harry absently kicks the door shut with his bare foot, and Louis notes that his forearms and the backs of his hands are slightly encrusted with grey, pink and yellow splotches, the loose blue shirt he’s wearing sprayed and flecked with paint, but the pair of baggy denim shorts he's got on his pale, slender legs seem to have gotten away with it.

And it feels a bit intrusive all of a sudden, entering Harry’s zone like this when he’s creating something, after weeks of lacking motivation and any kind of enthusiasm for something he’s meant to be working for a degree in. But it also makes him feel honoured Harry trusts him enough to let him inside while he is.

A sense of pride flutters within him.

“Messy. Thought you never got any paint on you?” Louis remembers, a teasing edge to his voice, testing the atmosphere between them. 

Harry glances at him, his mouth curving into a small, content smile. Louis' limbs relax significantly when Harry holds up the inside of his palms which are impressively free of paint.

Louis raises his eyebrows. "Oooh. Clever boy," he coos. Harry chuckles. He seems fine. Thank god.

“Sit,” the younger boy instructs, getting back to his canvas, unscrewing a tube of something that might as well be toothpaste to Louis, dabbing a brush to the nozzle.

“What you doing?” Louis asks, wrinkling his nose as he settles himself down on Harry’s unmade bed, staring curiously at the floor. Almost every available inch of space is covered by a number of assorted brushes, sheets of paper etched with pencil sketches of butterflies, birds and human hearts, nautical imagery and other small black doodles Louis can’t make out,  paint pallets set out over a huge rainbow splattered bed sheet. "Are these fumes going to cause me to pass out, by any chance? Or poison me? Get me high?" he adds with a smirk. “That last one I’ll consent to.”

Harry smiles, turning to cock his head at Louis. "No," he drawls. "You'll live."

Louis snorts as his eyes follow the unhurried, delicate sweeps of Harry’s hand against the canvas. "Thank god. My subscription to Netflix has only just been renewed. I’d hate to have missed out on my favourite shows that they’re definitely gonna cancel after one season." 

Harry huffs out a soft laugh. “Those bastards.”

Louis eyes’ then fall to the main event. There’s a backdrop of blue and white, almost fluffy, pillowy waves of acrylic paint smeared across the canvas, yellows and light pinks strewn within. Louis figures he’s painting the first layer and whatever else he’s planning will be painted on top. "This suits you, you know. Being creative." He nods at Harry’s chaotic canvas. "It looks amazing, Harry."

"Shut up," Harry replies softly, pushing his glasses further onto the bridge of his nose. He’s blushing a lovely shade of pink. Louis smiles.

"What are you painting?"

“It’s a surprise,” Harry murmurs simply, the timbre of his voice low and tired, but Louis can hear his soft smile, despite his back to him.

“Are you aware I’m in direct view of what you’re doing?” Louis bites on his own smile, stretching out his toes as he watches him, leaning back on his elbows.

“You won’t be seeing all of it. I’m kickin’ you out in a bit.” Harry turns around, smiling fondly at where Louis is laid out on Harry’s bed.

Louis tracks Harry’s gaze lingering on  the slither of his stomach showing, so he lies down completely, cushioning his head with his arms, the weight of Harry’s affectionate stare growing heavier as time goes on. He feels warm.

“Oh, that's charming. What a host, you are.” Louis sits back up again, feeling fidgety and crosses his legs, grinning impishly. "I'll get around you somehow."

Harry huffs out another quiet snigger, eyes flicking toward him again, soft. It’s a stark difference in behaviour from hours earlier in the coffee shop. Harry seems to have calmed down completely, is utterly, entirely relaxed—if it weren’t for the dark traces of tiredness draped conspicuously beneath the beds of his eyes.

But they still need to talk about it. As much as it pains Louis to have to disturb the quiet, almost serene ambiance, he can’t just let that slide. They need to talk about what they are to each other if Harry is so uncomfortable with the idea of Louis being with anyone else. (As is Louis. God, he doesn’t know what he’d do if Harry said he wanted to be with other people.)

But optimism is still continuously blooming in Louis’ chest, a touch of expectation wrapping around his mind,  _good_  expectation, and he’s grabbing hold of it with both hands, no matter what else is going on in that cluttered brain of his, no matter how big the risk that this won’t work out.

He flops backwards in a boneless heap amongst Harry’s sheets, arms thrown above his head on the pillow and stares up at the white ceiling, at the ugly, brown cylinder shaped lampshade strung from it. After a few moments, he hears some rustling and the snick of a bottle cap, the tap of a paint brush being set down on a surface.

Louis turns on his side to see Harry taking off his glasses, situating himself on the bed.

"Those are very Clark Kent," Louis murmurs. "Suit you."

"You suit them better." Harry smiles, carefully curling his body around his, practically about to roll back off any second so Louis pulls him in, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist to keep him from falling flat onto that beautiful face. Spots, freckles, and all. His pulse quickens embarrassingly fast when Harry gently brushes his fringe across his forehead, sweeping it over to the opposite side. It’s an awkward angle so Louis doesn’t really know why he’s doing it, but he relaxes into his touch anyway, leans into it, because he’s a sad, hopelessly besotted idiot.

Then Harry rolls them over, Louis on top, his hands resting at Louis' sides, chests pressed together. Harry’s fingertips gradually begin to roam beneath Louis’ t-shirt, Louis flinching at the cool sensation of Harry’s many rings sliding slowly over the length of his back, towards his shoulder blades. Louis shivers and lets out a laugh, rolling onto his back.

Harry keeps his eyes locked with Louis’ as he moves to straddle Louis' thighs, fingers hovering over the hem of Louis’ t-shirt. He rucks it up to Louis' collarbones and Harry places his hand flat atop Louis’ bare stomach, stroking lightly, blindly tracing the contours of his torso while their gazes stay fastened together.

Louis gently lifts Harry’s hand, holding it mid-air. Harry lets him for a moment, then he’s leaning down and closing the distance between their bodies, planting his nose against the side of his bicep, moving to the base of his throat, lips barely dragging over his skin. 

Harry's left hand cups the side of Louis’ face as he lifts back up.

Louis feels exposed under the sheer openness of Harry’s gaze, a fucking lightning bolt to his infatuated heart, scorching it to crisp ash. He’s on fire.

God, Harry has to feel it? Feel the way his heart is beating like it’s speeding up down the motorway and about to crash at any fucking moment, the way his body melts when Harry touches him, feel the thick, hazy currents that draw them together.

“What?” Louis breathes.

Harry lowers his head so that their faces are mere inches apart. “You’re sweet,” Harry murmurs, soft eyes doting, gazing at him.

“Sweet?” Louis smiles, Harry thumbs over the crinkles appearing by his eyes. Harry hums in agreement, thumb trailing down his face to drag over his mouth instead.

“A sweet creature.”

“A what?” Louis grins so hard his face hurts, groaning, but also thrilled with his undivided attention.

“Sweet creature,” Harry repeats proudly, as though he’s come up with the cleverest term of endearment ever.

“You’re embarrassing,” Louis says, throwing his face to the side, smothering himself in the pillow, teeth caught in the fabric of the pillowcase because he can’t stop fucking smiling.

“But you are,” Harry insists with a slow, adoring drawl and Louis feels so fucking special right now, Harry’s massive hands pawing at him to get Louis to show him his face.

Louis sighs giddily. “Ridiculous," he smiles, cupping Harry's cheeks and tugs him until their mouths are almost a breath away from connecting. But instead of kissing him, Harry buries his face in his neck, against Louis’ fluttering pulse point. It throbs harder as Harry’s mouth grazes his scorching skin, leaving a path of embers with his lips.

Louis closes his eyes and rests his forehead amongst Harry’s curls, his scent already so familiar and scarily precious to him, bunching a fist in the paint sprayed material of Harry’s shirt that brushes the bare skin of Louis' chest.

It’s just so  _easy_  with them like this. So natural, affectionate, and Louis’ only growing decidedly more confused. "Harry, I know you're trying to distract me."

"I thought that's what we're doing," Harry shoots back.

"You know what I mean."

Harry quiets.

“I’m sorry for the way I was this afternoon,” he mumbles into his neck. “God, I was such a twat. I don't know what's wrong with me."

“It’s okay.” Louis rubs his back, dizzy from the other’s boy smell. Everything about Harry grounds him. Makes him feel safe.

“It’s not.” Harry draws back to look at him, pulling Louis into his lap and hooking his arm underneath Louis’ knees, winding his other arm around his waist. “I’m sorry,” he tells him earnestly, holding his gaze, imploring. His brows are pinched. “I was being such a tit. I’m so irritable, lately. I swear I'm not usually like this. Well, I didn't used to be..." He hangs his head, weary.

"Oh, so it's just me who brings out the jealous rages," Louis says, trying to lift the mood. He doesn't want Harry to feel bad, he just wants to know what's going on in that complicated head of his.

"I’m sorry, Lou.” His mouth is tugged downwards. He looks so sad. He always looks sad if Louis stares closely enough, looks too long. It sparks another twinge of concern he’s not used to having for this boy.

Louis sighs. “Don't you think we've been doing this a lot recently?" Because they have. Louis should start a tally. 

“Doing what?”

“Apologising. I think we’ve said sorry to each other more than enough times by now. It’s getting pretty ridiculous.” Louis smiles.

“Well, I’ve been a tit on more than one occasion. It’s worthy of numerous ardent apologies," Harry pouts.

“Alright, Mr Darcy. You’re right.”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“You  _were_ a tit.”

“I know,” Harry nods grimly. "I was a child about it."

Louis laughs. “But so am I.”

Louis’ the idiot. Because he didn’t mean any of what he said earlier. As if he'd even look at anyone else now.

"When Luke came up to me, he rightfully assumed we were friends, but not the rest. He went on and on about you, really laying it on thick about how much he wanted to get to know you, and I just felt... crazy." Harry whispers, eyes on Louis' fingers as he idly plays with them, cutting Louis off. "I was so jealous."

“I know,” Louis breathes back. “Not that it wasn’t quite clear to every poor soul just trying to drink their espressos in peace."

Harry cringes, groaning. “God, how many more times am I gonna embarrass myself?" He shakes his head, covering his face. "I told you. I feel too much. I'm... emotionally volatile," he says, a hint of a playful smile tugs his lips behind his hands.

Louis chuckles, prying his hands away, and lies back down. He tugs Harry down with him, bracketing Harry’s waist with his thighs, giving it a subtle squeeze of reassurance. Harry resumes hiding his face in Louis’ neck. “If it was the other way round, I’d feel exactly the same,” he admits. “Probably worse than you, to be honest. I can be severely petty when _I'm_  jealous, you know.”

He hears Harry release a heavy exhale, muffled in his skin and stirring his cells wildly in the process.

Harry lifts his head up and looks down at him seriously. "Would you really? Feel the same about me, I mean?"

Louis swallows. _Of course he would. He does._  He nods. Reminds himself he means the jealousy. "Yeah."

“I wasn’t sure if you still wanted—”

“I do,” Louis replies immediately. God, he’d say yes to anything; he doesn't even need to know what Harry was about to say. Yes, is always the answer.

Harry quiets again. “I’ve never felt like that before in my life. About anyone. It was so intense, and I hated how I was being. It was so childish, but I couldn't help it." He pauses. "Because I don't want you to go out with Luke.” The words are faint, but they're blunt and honest and they knock Louis for six, lips parting on a intake of breath, brushing his neck. A surge of exhilaration spreads through him at Harry being open about his feelings towards Louis, even if he’s not fully explaining them.

But it's a start. Louis will take it. "Why?" he asks quietly. "Why don't you want me to?"

His insides are doing somersaults, star jumps, popping hasty bottles of champagne, the chaos only increasing when Harry presses a tentative, tender kiss to his open mouth, his forearms planted either side of Louis’ head, and his long, lean body blanketing his.

Harry barely drags himself over Louis, kissing him harder, before he grinds his hips down, a firm roll of his hips. Louis' brain short-circuits at the movement. He hooks his legs over Harry's lower back, bringing their bodies even closer together, both searching for more much needed friction.

Louis loses himself in the raspy sound of Harry’s heavy breathing in his ear, his face hidden back in the crook of Louis’ neck, his hands roaming, tracing over his skin.

“I just—I can't—“ The circles of Harry’s tortuously slow hips falter. “I don’t want anyone else to touch you. Not while we’re doing this,” he continues, his voice deeper, rougher. “I know I’m being selfish, and I should probably care a bit more about that." He lifts his head a fraction, catching Louis’ eyes. "But I don’t want to stop, Louis," he pleads. "I don't want to stop," he repeats, whispering it against his lips. Like it's a secret. “Not yet.”

And Louis knows they're just skirting over this. Again. They're still not talking properly. And they need to  _talk_. Enough with the vague, sweeping statements that keep them both happy for a few days at most. He should stop Harry. Sit up and tell him that's he gone for him. Try and convince him that it will be okay this time. He's not Mikael. He's Louis. They can be so good together, and Louis will never hurt Harry. He doesn't have to worry about them not working. They  _will_  work. Louis’ certain of it. If Harry lets them have the chance to.

But Louis lets it happen. He stupidly lets Harry kiss him, hoping for oblivion.

Weak. He's always weak for Harry. He'll never not be.

“I don't want to stop this either," Louis replies instead, mind whirring. "A hard pass on all of the above for me, too.” Louis leans up and kisses Harry square on the mouth, biting his bottom lip and tugging, like he’s claiming him, like he belongs to him.

Louis wants to have him in every way, wants him  _everywhere_ , wants to be so drawn, wound so tight that he has nowhere else to go but to fall apart.

So he keeps purposeful eyes on Harry as he slips off his t-shirt, a wordless question dying on his tongue as Harry’s hands reach out to touch his chest.

“ _Harry_ ,” he says with a desperation he didn’t know he was capable of voicing. He’d be embarrassed about it, but he’s so turned on that he can’t be arsed to care.

Harry’s uneven breaths hit his face, each one undoing Louis just a bit more. His mouth is parted, and he settles his searching gaze upon Louis, a touch timid and hesitant. “Are you—" his breath hitches. "Do you want to?” he exhales.

And god, Louis absolutely _craves_  him. His skin is humming, crackling with want, with the way Harry’s trembling hands grip firmer at his waist.

Louis digs his hands into his back just as hard, arching up off the mattress as Harry grinds down again, the rush of pressure maddening and sending another bout of thriving butterflies in his stomach that Louis melts into, doesn't even try to push away.

“Yes,” he says, the word floating through the palpable air that sits enticingly between them. Louis might as well be high right now. His cheeks are so hot, his whole body radiating heat.

Harry nods, his own cheeks flushed a gorgeous shade of pink, eyes heavily falling closed. "Okay." He dips in to kiss him again, deep and lingering, breaking off with a wet, gorgeous sound that has Louis’ thighs nearly shaking. Fuck, he already is. He holds on tighter, just as Harry lifts off him and Louis almost hysterically shouts out  _no_ , before he realises Harry is undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Louis shakily sits up and helps him, practically ripping the thing off as Harry kneels on the bed and shoves his shorts down, chucking them on the floor amongst the mess of paint and sheets. Louis hastily removes his own clothes and settles back down on the bed, chest heaving in anticipation.

He just wants him so much, he could burst apart.

Harry climbs back on top of him and moves his hands up to explore his neck, sucking a hefty bruise there that stings deliciously, inadvertently causing Louis’ legs to clutch at Harry’s body in a probably bruising manner, too.

Harry’s breath hitches again, and Louis can feel  _all_ of him. Everywhere. Louis groans as he lets Harry peel down his boxers, jerking when Harry’s hand palms at him, giving him a few assured strokes. Louis moans louder, unbothered about how fucking desperate he sounds by now.

“Lie down on your belly for me,” Harry says, voice perfumed in desire and what sounds like nerves.

Louis does as he’s told and rests the side of his face on the pillow, hands perched against the headboard as Harry spreads Louis’ legs wider.

Harry’s fingertips trail along the backs of his thighs, his bum, his calves, deliberate and slow, placing a kiss to each one. He briefly grabs hold of his ankles as his plush lips drag slowly down his back, sending his senses soaring with the alluring warmth of Harry's mouth brushing his oversensitive skin.

His lips  _burn_ , even though he can feel goosebumps breaking out over the expanse of his skin, sending a wave of heat straight down to his cock, incapable of smothering the desperate sounds he’s making in the back of his throat.

And then Harry pulls his cheeks apart, his hot breath against his hole making him jolt.

“Jesus—oh, my— _Christ_ —are you trying to kill me?” Louis babbles into the pillow.

Fuck, this might be what heaven feels like. And if it is, he’s going to pry open those gates himself to experience this for all eternity.

Louis gasps as Harry gets his slick mouth on him, pressing his tongue flat over his hole. He licks a firm stripe. Louis jerks when he firmly pushes his tongue inside, spreading lush wetness over the sensitive area. “Harry,” he whines. “ _Fuck_.”

He starts to shift incessantly on the mattress, and Harry doesn’t let up. Licks and kisses and sucks undoing Louis for what feels like ages. He's going to come just from his mouth, and when Harry thrusts his tongue inside him once more, Louis does. He buries his face into his pillow, shuddering with a sob. 

Harry then  appears by his face from behind, kissing the spot of his neck just below his earlobe and nudges his nose with Louis'. “Was that okay?” he asks. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

“Harry, yes? Of course I want to,” Louis slurs, all orgasm-hazy, twisting around to wrap his arms around Harry’s shoulders, kissing him again, but Harry pulls away before Louis can try to deepen it, leaving him chasing for more.

“Alright, I’m just checking,” he chuckles, his voice still a bit uneven, pecking a kiss between Louis’ shoulder blades.

“Hey,” Louis twists around, reaching for Harry’s wrist. “But you’re okay, yeah? Do you still want to? Tell me if you don’t, Harry. It’s okay, honestly.”

Harry looks at him, earnest. “I want to do everything with you.”

Louis smiles. "Well, alright, then." But something heavy twists in his gut, something that wishes Harry meant more with these words he so easily says. The snick of a lube bottle shakes him out of that, though, and he twists his head to watch Harry coat his fingers. Harry smiles back, huffing a breath over Louis’ face as he leans down, peppering more quick kisses over the expanse of Louis’ back.

Louis turns onto his stomach again, hands gripping onto the pillow.

“Gonna take my time until you want nothing else but me,” Harry whispers into his ear, making Louis’ chest feel tight. He can’t think about the apparent genuineness of what he’s saying, not now, so he closes his eyes and dissolves beneath Harry’s hot mouth over the shell of his ear.

Besides. It’s already true. There’s no one else Louis wants. 

He feels him teasingly drag two slick fingers over his hole, Louis clenching his muscles when Harry presses experimentally, prodding the tip of one finger inside, before he's sliding both in, moving them languidly.

Louis’ thighs tingle, his breathing growing more laboured the longer Harry takes opening him up, getting used to the tight stretch of Harry’s fingers. It goes on for a while, Louis squirming incessantly, Harry deftly working in and out of him, eliciting the kind of sobs and gasps from Louis that make him want to hide his face in his pillow, because it’s so much.

Louis pushes back harder onto his fingers. “Enough,” he pants, biting back another moan because Harry’s fingers are still pumping into him, his arm reaching back to sharply tug on Harry’s hair. He finally takes them away and Louis lets out a needy whine, wanting him back immediately.

Harry fumbles to rip open the condom packet. Louis heavily rolls over onto his back, his limbs wobbly and watches Harry slide it on, lubing himself up a bit more.

Harry’s breathy laugh tickles his chin as he leans down and covers Louis’ body completely with his own, Louis’ arms instantly winding around his neck to bring him as close as possible, so that they’re touching everywhere, each place of contact setting Louis’ nerves ablaze, prickling to the point of too much.

He groans, biting on his jaw before reaching up to connect their lips, tongue licking urgently inside to show Harry how much he wants this, how much he  _needs_  this.

Eyes locked with Louis’, Harry hovers above him, reaching a trembling hand between them, guiding himself towards Louis’ entrance. He pushes forward slowly, Louis’ mouth falling open at the stretch, despite how slick he is from Harry’s fingers. When he’s all the way in, Louis tightens his arms around Harry’s back, runs his fingertips up and down, memorizing every dip and curve of his silky, slightly damp skin, clutching at his shoulders as he absorbs the erratic, thumping speed of Harry’s heartbeat placed directly over his own, their bodies skin to skin.

Harry stays still for a few moments, eyes screwed shut, his breathing ragged. “Oh, god," he gasps. _"God_. Louis,” he groans, pushing his forehead against Louis’ as he pulls out and then pushes in again.

Louis tries to concentrate on the overwhelming feel of Harry buried inside him, trying to get his lungs to work properly as he pants, “Harry.”

Harry uses one hand to grip at Louis’ hipbone and buries the other in Louis’ hair as he smoothly thrusts into him, face in Louis' neck, gathering up a steady rhythm that has Louis’ toes curling, his blunt fingernails raking down Harry’s back ceaselessly. His steadying weight lies flat atop him, Louis lightheaded, feeling pleasantly trapped and safe all at once, the smooth rolls of Harry’s hips rendering him breathless, floating through hot waves of pleasure and gasping harshly when Harry hits his spot.

His feelings for this boy pour over him like water too hot, the rush, and the warmth rising from his pores, submerging his body in roaring bolts of electricity. 

"Don't stop," Louis breathes when Harry slows down at random, palming at Harry's bum.

Harry continues to thrust into him, leaning down to kiss him messily, lifting one of Louis' legs and holding it behind his knee as he changes the angle. He hits his spot again and Louis keens, breaths harsh as he pushes back, meeting the erratic rolls of Harry's hips.

Louis bites onto Harry’s shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut.

Harry holds him through his orgasm, his thrusts relentless, following him seconds later with a few more glides and his body spasms.

They clutch tightly to each other as they come down, neither making an attempt to move as they cling on, their cheeks flushed blotchy pink. 

"Can we just stay here forever?" Harry whispers, meeting Louis' eyes.

Louis nods. "Whatever you want," he says, head resting on Harry's sweaty chest, and they stay like that until they fall soundly to sleep, Louis content to just let things be for now, safe in his arms. He'll live in the moment for now, pushing the future aside where it belongs.

It can wait.

**

Over the next few weeks, Louis’ days are spent mostly rolling around in bed with Harry every night, (goodbye sleep for real now) trying to cram revision sessions in between, and then hurriedly tearing each other clothes back off as soon as one of their bedroom doors shut.

There's been no recent drama with Mikael, or Luke, and it's generally been... pretty amazing.

The exhibition has been moved forward. Well, there’s a smaller, more low-key one just before Christmas that his father’s girlfriend, Alice, has put together to generate some buzz and publicity for the upcoming Spring exhibition to be held in London, more of an 'up and coming' showcase of new artists, and Harry has been furiously painting away, sometimes letting Louis in to watch, but most of the time not. Louis' just so glad Harry is working again with genuine enthusiasm. He tells him as much regularly, which always earns him another blush from the other boy.

So Harry has started leaving little drawings and sketches lying around for Louis to find for when he's locked away in his room. He leaves them on the kitchen table in a rush before class, tucked neatly inside Louis' textbooks, taped to the wall, the door, the mirror in his room.

Charming little imaginings, doodles, and speech bubbles. Things they've said—silly, senseless things. Gibberish. A joke, or a song lyric they both like. Some ridiculous quote, along with cartoonish illustrations of themselves with cups of tea.

Louis quite loves them.

Sometimes, though, the drawings are a bit different. Curious. Last week, he found a small comic strip; a reenactment of Louis' first disastrous cooking attempt, and in the next box was a scenario where Louis' attempt had gone perfectly.

It makes Louis wonder what other scenarios Harry draws and doesn't show him.

But his thoughts are far too scarily consumed by that gangly, quiff-mad, boot-wearing boy these days.

So to remedy that, Louis’ been trying his hardest to concentrate during his lectures, and makes sure to set off to the library to meet Perrie or the others, as to not make his entire life about Harry at the moment, especially when he’s got so much to finish and assignments still to start. So he goes to the library after each lecture, determinedly not checking his phone for Harry’s texts. Which alternate between needy, cute and horny. (Very horny.)

Yep. That’s what he does. If he even manages to get there at all, that is.

Which is not a lot. At all.

(He tried.)

Because unexpectedly, Harry has taken to ambushing Louis whenever the mood hits him. Louis kind of expecting it whenever he receives a particularly overtly suggestive and flirtatious text, and more than willing to accommodate him, obviously, especially since the Christmas break is fast approaching, and Louis won’t be seeing Harry for a  _month._

Probably. If he can change that, Louis’ completely going to do it.

They skipped their lecture today, (it was only an overview of essay planning anyway) and spent the last hour moving together until their lungs couldn't handle it anymore. Louis' extremely well fucked these days. He's majorly smug about it.

Right now, Harry seems to be determined to work him up again, though Louis is more than content to just lie here and cuddle, happily surrendering himself to Harry’s eager kisses, who's intent on marking every inch of skin on Louis' body apparently. And who is Louis to deny him that? It’s glorious, and he sighs, a faint smile never wavering from his face.

But even though Louis might have temporarily shoved all thoughts of questioning their relationship status away, he’s swapped them for a tiny crisis over how used to Harry he’s gotten so quickly. It’s hasn’t been three months yet. It makes Louis a little uneasy. 

Because he just wants to be near him, all the time, even when they’re not even saying anything, or doing anything in particular. He makes him feel calm, safe. He just wants to be close. It’s getting a bit unhealthy, he thinks. A bit crazy.

But it doesn’t stop Louis wanting to spend time with him, as much as he possibly can. While he’s able to. Which is what prompts the next thing Louis says.

“Niall said there’s a Christmas party at some rich kid’s place next Saturday,” he attempts conversationally, as though Harry isn’t idly brushing his thumb over Louis’ stiff nipple, pinching the bud until he’s got Louis squirming in the bed sheets, Harry smirking blessedly above him.

Harry snorts. “You mean rich kids like you?”

Louis twists Harry’s nipple in retaliation with a mild scowl. “Oi. Don’t lump me in with them. It’s the old man’s money, not mine.”

Harry smiles, reattaching his mouth to his chest, humming contentedly as he sucks on his sternum. “So, um... do you want to go?” Louis asks, breath hitching on the ‘o’. Like, together?”

“You sure we can be trusted in public?” Harry reluctantly lifts his head up, taking away his hand that’s been clutching at his hipbone, and places it over Louis’ exposed stomach instead, where he’s so kindly left a ring of dark red bruises around his belly button. He seems pleased at his work, and moves up to rest his chin on Louis’ shoulder. “How are we supposed to get drunk with everyone else, and not end up humping each other against the fridge?” he grins cheekily, laughing at himself. “People will talk,” he says dryly.

“Just can’t keep your hands off me, can you?” Louis raises his eyebrows in mock surprise, flicking his fringe. “Embarrassing. Do you have no shame?”

A smirk stretches across Harry’s face as he glances up, pressing his hot pink fingernails (he painted Louis’ pale blue) into the soft flesh of Louis’ tummy. His palm burns. “Nope,” he mumbles into his skin.

“You do know Perrie already knows about us, right? And Liam. And Niall, obviously.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry says, like he’s forgotten he’s literally had conversations with the guys about them.

Louis’ smile slips slightly.

But it’s not really spoken about. That everyone knows. Perrie hasn’t brought them up since that night he went to Niall and Liam’s flat to get drunk. She’s left them to continue their own thing, fortunately, casting them a few meaningful glances, but that’s it. It seems not one of them has outright asked Harry what he’s doing with Louis, either. (Not that he knows of. But it’s not like Harry would tell Louis if they did.) And the others haven’t pulled Louis aside to inquire about the two of them either.

Everyone seems to be suspiciously keeping whatever thoughts they have to themselves. No jokes. No banter. No nothing. It’s painfully obvious that they’re sleeping together, but no one is saying a thing.

Which.  _Good_ , Louis supposes.

Louis is still fiercely protective of the space they’ve made that’s just theirs. These past few weeks, it’s been a satisfying whirlwind of snogging, snuggles and sex. Harry’s taken to teasingly calling their alone time together in Louis’ bed ‘booty calls’ with cheeky smiles and demonstrative Beyoncé style dances to go with the phrase. (He’s so ridiculous).

Louis can’t say he’s too fond of calling them that, but their hook ups are mostly happening when they’re both completely sober. And their encounters are becoming less rushed and urgent and more intimate and sort of... tender? Slow? Full of eye contact and worshipping every inch of their bodies, and it’s scary, because Harry is so soft and pliant in these moments and Louis can’t shake the overwhelming feeling that he feels like  _home._

He gets lost in the hot press of their bodies, whatever the time of day is, even if it’s skipping an afternoon lecture to have sex. Like now. Not caring about how loud they’re being because everyone else is in class.

But then there’s the other side. The domesticity. The  _coupley_  behaviour, if you will, that keeps Louis awake at night.

Because Harry makes his dinner, and cleans his glasses for him without being asked to, and collects his fucking laundry with his, like it’s second nature to him. They take cups of tea to Louis’ room to cuddle, and Louis will wash Harry’s hair, and Harry will insist on a kiss before they go to class or somewhere without the other. They go to the cinema by themselves, go for drinks by themselves, study together as Harry reads through his fucking massive art history volumes and Louis reads up on his psychology studies and statistics. They’ve gone ice skating and shopping for Christmas presents, gone for countless coffees amongst the nights out clubbing.

And they haven’t had a night apart for over three weeks. Apart from when he's painting, Harry’s barely been in his own room, always choosing to sleep in Louis’ cramped, single bed, Louis’ arms wrapped around his middle, curled around Harry’s back.

And that isn’t even the worst part.

It was a Tuesday evening when Louis was hit hard in the face with the earth-shattering realisation that he was  _stuck_.

They were sprawled out on Louis’ bed as usual, taking forever to get changed as Harry rambled on about nonsensical things, Louis hanging onto his every word like he was going to be taking an exam on it all.

“I want a cat,” Harry said, mumbling through his food. “But I’ll choose the biggest one I can find and name it ‘Louis’,” he smiles, sugary sweet, his eyes bright with mirth. “Because you’re so tiny,” he clarified, laughing. "Little Louis." He patted Louis’ head, finding his own lame joke so very amusing.

“Ha, ha.” Louis squinted at him with narrowed eyes, diminishing into breathy chuckles. A slow shake of his head doing nothing to tone down the soft smile spreading over his face, hard as he might have tried to keep an unimpressed face on. “You think you’re so funny.”

“I’m hilarious,” Harry grinned. "I better get on with planning my stand-up material."

It was in this ordinary, unperturbed moment that it crept up on him.

And Louis knew.

With the sheets pooled in Harry's lap, slightly slumped against the headboard in his Pink Floyd t-shirt that was splashed with dried paint. With his hair a completely dishevelled bird nest. With his eyes still puffy from sleep, and a reddened spot coming up on his forehead. With milk dribbling down his chin as he shovelled another overflowing spoonful of granola into his mouth.

Louis knew that he was in imminent danger of doing exactly the thing he had told Harry not to do.  Whether it was said jokingly, or not.

_Just don't go falling in love with me, and it'll be fine._

Fuck. Fuck?  _Fuck?_

“Are you okay, Lou?” Harry blinked at him, eyes concerned.

“Me? Oh, yeah. Fine! I’m great! Fantastic,” he said, high-pitched and a little frantic, breaking out in a sweat, overcome with panic.

Louis is not dealing with this epiphany well, instead choosing to just lie in bed. With Harry. Because he can’t stay away. (Louis is very disgruntled about this fact.)

And all he knows is those poems and sonnets written about the soul-consuming, miserable wretchedness of unrequited love were correct.

Yes.  _Love._ Love is  _torture_. (Not that it's set in stone. He's just... acknowledging that he could for fall for him. That's all.)

He said as much to Niall for about five seconds, when they were slumped against a bookcase at the back of the library yesterday, Niall munching on a bag of tortilla chips while Louis tried to drown out his obnoxious crunching by listening to The Smiths. It had been a while. But 'How Soon Is Now?'wasn't the best choice he could have made. It just made him feel moody and brooding as hell. And he quickly changed his mind. Forced it to. 

He couldn't be in love with Harry yet. It was far too soon.

"These taste 'ike crap," Niall mumbled. "Where did you get 'em from?" 

"Say it. Don't spray it," Louis said, ripping out an ear bud. "And they're just plain flavoured. What did you expect them to taste like? Hot, spicy chicken?"

"Got any sauce?"

"Oh, yes, I'll just pull out the extensive collection of hot sauce bottles and tubs of dip that I carry around in my bag, shall I?"

Niall shot him a glare. "You're in love with Harry, then?" he quipped, raising his brows smugly.

Louis glared back. "Don't be ridiculous. I haven't _known_ him long enough to love him, Niall," he said. "Come on. Honestly. I thought we'd moved past that subject. Or at least I have."

"Like you don't fall the fastest out of all of us."

"How would I compare it to anything? I've never been in love."

Niall furrowed his brows at him. "Well, I think it's possible."

"Next question. Do you ever study? Ever?" Louis said, decidedly ignoring him. 

In response, Niall shoved five tortilla chips into his mouth at once as he pointedly looked at Louis. The boy takes Politics and Economics for Christ sake. How is he passing without extensive studying? Louis crossed his numb legs, removing both earbuds and started to rummage through his bag for his notes when he was interrupted by Niall clearing his throat.

Louis looked up to see Luke beaming down at him.

Oh, shit. This was all he needed.

“Hi, Louis,” he greeted, that smile ever present on his face. Louis felt a twinge of guilt, because he really was going to have to let him down gently, wasn’t he? “Can I sit with you guys?” he asked, already lowering his bag strap.

“Sure,” Niall replied easily, casting Louis a wary look.

Luke paid no mind to Niall, however, his eyes locked on Louis with keen interest. Louis smiled politely back, tapping his pen manically against his notebook. “What can I help you with?”

“Oh, nothing,” Luke laughed. Louis shot Niall a glance. Niall widened his eyes in amusement. “I was just wondering if you were going with anyone to your father’s Gala?”

“His what?” Louis asked, confused. What Gala?

“Oh, he didn’t tell you?” Luke’s brows were pinched.

Louis sighed jadedly. “Ah, well, we don’t have the most forthcoming of parent-son relationships,” he answered wryly, acutely aware of Luke’s leg subtly pressing closer against his knee. Ahem. He hoped Harry wasn’t around to see it. He could already feel Niall’s eyes burning into the side of his face. 

“Oh, right. I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t realise you didn’t get on?”

“Yeah, it’s um... it’s strained to put it mildly,” Louis grinned self-deprecatingly.

“Well, um,” Luke cleared his throat, a tad awkward. “I’m not sure if you know this, but my mum works for your father? She’s his personal assistant? They’ve worked closely together for years.”

Oh. He did not know that. Not that he would.

“Right, okay.” Louis raised an eyebrow, wondering where this was going, and kind of having a good idea of where it was.

“And uh, I thought it might be nice if we could go together? Since our parents are hosting the event? You’ll be there, right?”

Louis’ absently scrolled through his emails when he spotted one from his father. (An email. God.) Asking whether he was available to attend the Gala.( Fucking weird.) Lottie was going too, apparently. He's got some kind of announcement. Right. Alice would love to see him there, it said. Hmm. Well, okay. She  _was_  really nice when Louis spoke to her at the auction.

And it’s not like he could really ask Harry to go as his date. He doesn’t want to ruin Harry’s chances of being picked for the exhibition after the auction, and he really wouldn’t put it past Tomlinson Senior to pull something as petty as not giving Harry a chance if he knew just how involved Harry and Louis are with each other.

“Listen, um. This wouldn’t be a... date, though, would it?” Louis asked, nonchalant. “It’s just I’m not interested in that kind of thing at the moment. I’m open to new friends, though,” he added with a smile.

Luke’s face noticeably fell, but he did a good job of schooling his features back to something breezy. Annoyingly breezy. Is this guy ever not unwaveringly pleasant? “Oh, no! We’ll go as friends... if that’s what you’d prefer? It’ll be fun,” he insisted, nudging his knee.

Oh, god. Where has he heard that before? Not that this, in any way, is going to end up like that. It’s not going to start at any point, either.

“Yeah, and sure,” Louis found himself blurting out. “You’re right. Might be fun,” he shrugged with an easy smile.

“Okay, great,” Luke beamed, getting up and shifting his bag atop his shoulder. “Well, I’ll catch you later, then?”

“Yep,” Louis smiled. Luke walked towards the exit, and then Louis' eyes caught Harry, swiping his card through the library gates and making his way over to Niall and Louis sat on the floor.

“Well, at least he should get the message now,” Niall said under his breath. “Let’s hope he doesn’t still try and make a move on you when you’re wearing an expensive designer suit.” Niall smiled widely as Harry approached them, squeezing the boy's ankle. “How goes it, sister?”

Harry frowned, amused. “You’re a very strange boy, Niall."

“Takes one to know one. I'm only quoting your lame self, mate.”

“Right,” Harry chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m never saying ‘sister’ again. It was a mistake.”

Harry then turned his attention to Louis and bopped his nose. “Alright?” Harry greeted fondly, plonking himself and his bag next to Louis.

“Wonderful,” Louis sung exaggeratedly, briefly concentrating on the dark circles prominent underneath Harry's eyes. He looked paler, a bit more peaky than he had lately. Tired. But Harry smiled sunnily, kissing him on the cheek. Louis couldn't help the blush that instantly rushed to his face. Niall snorted loudly.

“Aren’t you two just the cutest, most oblivious, aggravating things known to man,” Niall said, a bit too sweetly, and rolled his eyes, ruffling their hair before he stalked off with no bag in tow, just a half-eaten bag of tortilla crisps. "See ya later, gorgeous. You too, Harry." What a model student. The library assistant shot him an unimpressed look.

“No food in the library, Horan.”

Louis was frankly shocked they knew who Niall was, to be honest.

He turned back to Harry, who was now staring after Niall oddly, swallowing a bit tensely when Louis brushed his knee with his hand.

“Okay, babe?” Louis asked, giving Niall a look himself. Because it’s not as if Louis’ not  _trying_  to talk about them. They’ll get there eventually. Louis just needs a bit more time to get his head around the fact that he _might_  have much deeper feelings for Harry than he previously thought. You know, at some point. Not just that he wants them to be boyfriends.

Which is... terrifying.

Ugh. Life is hard. But less so when Harry plants his plush lips against the column of Louis’ neck.

Now they’re lying here in bed, Harry showering him with kisses before they have to be in different places. He’s slowly losing his mind now that he’s actually aware he’s probably already in love with Harry now. And it feels fucking awful. He's completely stuck. Fucked, is the more accurate term. Because this just spells disaster, doesn’t it? It’s got trouble written all over it.

So while he can, he’s savouring their kisses, soft smiles, and possessive touches, drowning himself in Harry until he forgets his own name, aggressively  _not_  thinking about the possibility of being in love.

Because that's ridiculous. 

Nope. Who? What, now?

Louis slips his hand into Harry’s, as the other boy’s fingers lace with his, his thumb stroking over his skin delicately. "Would you rather  people not know about us?” Louis questions, unsure if he even wants to know the answer.

There’s a long stretch of silence. Harry then shifts, mouthing at Louis’ collarbones, sucking a deep kiss into his skin. “I think it’s been really hot sneaking around,” Harry murmurs deeply, and Louis can hear the smirk in his voice. Harry dips his chin further into the junction between Louis’ neck and his bare shoulder, nuzzling him. Louis’ heart hammers behind his ribs. Dizzy. 

“Unsuccessfully, might I add." He pauses, momentarily screwing his eyes shut. "But, uh, yeah. It’s certainly spiced up the sex, that’s for sure. Raunchy.” He gives his eyebrows an exaggerated wiggle, hastily shoving down the tight lump in his throat. “I’m not usually one for that much public indecency, but you seem to bring out the rebel within me, Styles. And I’m a very respectable, good boy, you know,” he says primly, feigning a snootiness he’s ever witnessing from his father.

“Oh, have I corrupted you, baby?” Harry teases, a wicked smirk on his dopey face. He’s so cute that it cancels out his maddening smugness. Louis even wants to jump Harry when he’s chewing gum like an obnoxious cow.

He’s hideously endearing, and Louis is completely charmed. “Yes, I think it’s safe to say my innocence is tainted. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

“I am,” Harry merely giggles, hand coming up to the side of Louis’ face as he sucks harder at a pale spot underneath his jawline, lips smudged crimson. Harry pulls off after a minute, locking his green eyes with his. Louis bites down on his own lip as he stares at them, his fingers idly stroking over Harry’s scalp, buried in his wild, chocolate curls.

“How many times  _have_  we been absolutely obscene in public now?” he snorts.

“Five,” Harry replies proudly. “Did you know you’re even hotter when you’re stressing someone’s gonna see us,” he smirks up at him. “You get all flustered and breathless, and your cheeks go bright pink.”

Louis scoffs. “Get a sick thrill out of that do you, babe?”

“Yeah, think I do,” Harry says, far too thrilled with himself.

He’s playing idly with Louis’ fingers, pressing and grabbing and stroking Louis’ skin, leaving goosebumps, every touch another pinprick to Louis’ splintering heart. Harry can never stop touching him. Soft, tender touches, brief or drawn out, deliberate or oblivious.

And Louis knows Harry likes him, too. A lot, evidently. But it’s messing with Louis’ head.

His hopes are up that Harry likes him a lot more than he realises.

Louis hasn’t said that he wants it to be more, though, has he? Hasn’t alluded to it, or hinted at it explicitly at all. As far as Harry is aware, Louis’ still adamant this is a casual arrangement.

But what if that’s exactly how Harry still feels? And at what point is he going to dump Louis? And worse still, what if Harry is fine with it? Because Louis gets chest pains just at the mere thought of this thing ending.

He said he didn’t want to stop.  _Not yet._

So when?

Louis inwardly groans. “Right, well. I think it’s about time  _someone_  gets back to his own bed now, don’t you?”

As Louis expected, Harry immediately forms a pout, a disgruntled crease appearing between his brows. “What?" he exclaims. "But I like your bed! I’m used to it now. It’s more comfortable than mine is.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get up.”

“No. I want cuddles.” Harry makes a show of writhing around in the sheets. Louis needs some fucking air.

“Get out. Now,” he demands, but his voice is still annoyingly gentle. He can’t even  _try_  to be stern with Harry. Jesus. “I’ve things to do. And I know you have, too. You should get painting, Harry. You'll feel better for it. So go on. Shoo, and get those creative juices flowing.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? But I just got here,” he bemoans.

“Yeah, like an hour ago.” Louis shakes his head with a fond smile. “And please stop with the fucking pouting.”

Louis tries to keep the grin off his face but it seems he’s failed, because Harry is shooting upright and forcefully trying to pull Louis back down, as he fights and squirms in Harry’s hold, gripping at his sides.

“Come on, get off."

"With you?" Harry quips with impish eyes, a grin on his face.

"You are shameless," Louis shoots back. "I’m way behind on getting my assignments out of the way because of you,” he glares. “Got a fucking presentation with still only one slide in it.”

“Oh, please. Just a little longer? Come back to bed,” Harry mumbles into the fleshy part of his hip, hands holding firmly onto his thighs. He starts to trail little kisses up  his spine. Louis shivers, his head lulling back and into Harry’s balmy warmth. Of course Harry notices. He can tell by the smirk in his voice. “I’m not finished with you.”

 _But you will be soon?_  is what Louis doesn’t say out loud, letting it simmer there in his gut, a powerful surge of discomfort flooding it.

“ _If you leave me now, you’ll take away the biggest part of me_ ,” Harry grins manically as he  _sings_ to him.

Oh dear fucking god.

He’s singing to him now? Actual songs? For Christ’s sake. Louis covers his face with his hands briefly, twists his head around to look down at him. “You are  _not_  singing Chicago to me right now,” he deadpans.

Harry grins even wider. It does not look comfortable. “ _Ooo-ooh, no! Baby, please don’t go!_ ”

Louis laughs, pushing him down onto the bed. “You’re so awful.”

“Excuse you, I’m a fabulous singer.”

Louis grins, tipping his head back. “Come on,” Harry whines as he falls backwards to the mattress, lying tangled up in a pool of crumpled white sheets, his hair wonderfully mussed, his silky arms resting above it. “Kiss me,” he smiles.

“Just a kiss?” Louis quirks an eyebrow.

“Kiss _es_ ,” Harry corrects.

“Two kisses,” Louis relents, narrowing his eyes.

Harry pouts, brows furrowed. “Three,” he presses, “and a half.”

“And a half? What’s that mean?” Louis laughs.

“Three proper kisses and a peck,” Harry says simply, closing his eyes and puckering his lips like a dope, making kissy noises and all.

“I hate you.” Louis groans with a reluctant, fond roll of his eyes, collapsing back onto Harry’s milky chest. 

These three weeks go beyond what Louis imagined. Everything's been going fine, wonderful, even, despite the obvious.

But of course the bliss doesn't last much longer.

And Louis' precious bubble finally bursts.

They should be on their way to the Christmas party by now. But Harry insisted on them wearing matching reindeer jumpers that Louis quickly tore off and distracted him from his whining with enthusiastic kisses.

So now Louis’ here, half-dressed, and not even caring, because he’s sprawled out on his bed with Harry between his legs, who’s thoroughly kissing his neck like he’s never experienced it before in his life. Louis’ bare, bitten thighs tightening around Harry’s lovely, narrow waist as Harry rucks up his shirt.

“God, so soft. This tummy’s so soft,” Harry half-coos, half-groans into his skin. Louis’ practically chewing off the flesh inside his cheek as Harry kisses his belly, the feeling of his plush, wet lips cushioning themselves against his skin making him squirm. 

“Harry,” he laughs, burying his hands in his hair when Harry starts making purring noises, resting the side of his face atop his stomach.

He hums. “So soft, so pretty."

Louis bites down another grin, face hot. “Shush! You’ve said that about fifty times already.”

Harry beams up at him. “yeah, 'cause it’s the truth.”

“You make me sick. I’m so tired of you, honestly,” Louis groans.

Harry pauses a moment, face carefully blank.

“What?” Louis says.

And with that, he blows an abrupt raspberry into his stomach.

Louis screeches bloody murder and Harry releases a honking laugh, taking that as a cue to blow several more into his squirming skin, leaving Louis a writhing, hysterical mess, until finally relenting to fit their mouths together.

Things quickly get more heated, but then Louis’ phone buzzes, bringing them reluctantly out of their dizzy reverie.

“Leave it,” Harry’s disgruntled face demands, lips poised to go back in for another kiss.

Louis pulls away, smirking.

“Ignore it,” Harry whines when Louis denies him another one, his eyes zeroed in on the name of the sender.

“Um,” Louis falters. Ah.

Harry sighs, sitting up on the bed, hands still attached to Louis’ waist. His brows furrow when Louis continues to stare uncomfortably at his phone. “What is it?”

“It’s... Luke?”

Harry’s face immediately falls.

Louis awkwardly clears his throat, still a bit out of breath from kissing. “He’s asking me where I am.” Louis sighs, rubbing his face and pulling back from Harry. “Shit,” he mutters. He completely forgot about him. He’d said yes to meeting him at the party earlier in the week. In a hurry, yes. A barely made agreement that he quickly forgot about, made in drunken haste, but he made it regardless. And now Harry’s looking at him with a deep crease between his brows. “He’s waiting for me at his. I said I could pick him up.” Louis licks his lips uneasily. “Sorry," he smiles, sheepish. "I said I'd give him a lift without thinking. But he knows we're not gonna be anything more than mates, Harry. I told him that." He casually kisses his cheek. (He'll ignore Niall's later comment.)

"His mum is my dad's personal assistant, apparently."

Harry just looks at him.

"I was drunk! I was just being nice,” Louis defends. " _You_  know that I'm even more delightful when I'm drunk." He nudges his chest. "More than anyone, in fact," he winks. “And you love it.” _You love me,_ he wants to say. He doesn’t.

But the silence that follows makes Louis want to bolt and climb out through the window. It’s an awful silence. Tense and strained, crammed with words balancing on a precipice, on the tips of tongues, dying to be said.

Suddenly everything feels excruciatingly uncomfortable, the air between them thick and muddy like sludge, and Harry’s looking at him with those intense green eyes, his fingertips reaching for his mouth, wiping at it messily, lets his hand fall into his lap, seemingly with defeat.

Louis swallows heavily. “What are you thinking?” he asks hesitantly, because the mood has changed so drastically because of one text and he just wants Harry to be back on him, to feel him everywhere, to kiss that frown away.

Harry shifts and sits back against the wall, holding his knees to his chest. He stares at the floor, at Louis’ shoes that are upside down, and Louis is suddenly very aware of the fact his smart jeans are pooled around his ankles. He hastily pulls them up and Harry’s gaze flickers to him, watching Louis hastily attempting to get dressed.

“I’m thinking,” Harry says, running a hand through his hair, “that we’re moving too fast.”

Splat.

Harry’s voice is barely there. It’s a little rough and Louis would say he sounded  _wounded—_ if Louis didn’t know him any better. But he does know him. And that voice is Harry’s anxious voice, his distressed voice. “Like, maybe we should slow this down. Or... maybe we should just stop,” he whispers.

It’s whispered and yet the words still stab aggressively at Louis’ insides, splintering them apart, the rug having suddenly been pulled from underneath him. 

_No._

His voice is stiff and croaky when he faintly gets out, “Stop?”         

Louis knows he should have expected this, but it still stuns him. He really thought Harry might have changed his mind.

When Harry lifts his face, it’s etched in distress, but his voice holds little to no emotion, pressing harder on Louis’ fraying chest. “This wasn’t supposed to get serious, was it? And it’s starting to seem like it. We’re getting too—attached. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

His face is terrified.

"Where is this suddenly coming from?" Louis asks, frowning. "Because of Luke?"

“He has feelings for you," Harry mumbles, staring at the bedspread. 

"So?” Louis makes a face, shrugging. “I _don't._ I don't feel anything for him."

"But he's nice,” Harry says, a faraway look in his eyes. “Happy..." he breathes.

Louis stares. "I couldn't give a shit if he's a fucking prince on acid, Harry. What's your point?"

"If you want to see other people, you should."

Louis gapes at him, baffled. “What _are_  you talking about?” he practically screeches, utterly perplexed. “I don’t  _want_ to see other people! I don't have any feelings towards Luke whatsoever." He groans, throwing his head back in frustration. “We’ve been through this, haven’t we? You basically said in so many words that we  _are_ exclusive, Harry,” he almost shouts. “You told me you didn’t like the idea of me with anyone else." He finds his eyes and keeps them there. "You told me not to see anyone else! What the hell have these last few weeks meant?"

"We're not thinking the same anymore, are we," Harry says, doesn't ask.

"Yes we are?" Louis lies. "This is enough for me, okay?” he says, more gently. “Harry?”

Harry stares at him, helpless. His rueful smile is watery. “I can’t give more to you right now, and it’s not fair to you to make you wait either, because I don’t know when I’ll be ready for—”

Louis can’t stand this. He rubs at his temples. “Harry, but you have been. Have you really not noticed how we’ve been acting, lately? We’re basically together. Can’t you see that? We practically  _are_  a couple. How we’ve been behaving—I’m sorry to break it to you, H, but what we’re doing isn’t what two people just hooking up act like. At all. And if you think we’re only just moving too fast now, I’ve got some news for you,” he scoffs. “Because we’ve not been a casual thing for weeks, and you know we haven’t.”

Harry’s face stills, his whole body stiffens. Something behind his eyes seems to take this in, as though he’s thinking about it for the very first time, and he certainly doesn’t look happy about it. Complete and utter terror flows across his face.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore,” Harry blinks, tears rapidly filling his eyes. "It's not fair to you. This has gone too far already. I shouldn't have let it." He slides his hands into his hair.

“You don’t really want to end this,” Louis bites back the urge to let his voice waver. “Harry, what is it? What are you so afraid of?” he asks, softer, leaning forwards to catch Harry’s wrists. They're shaking. “Has something happened? It’s just me. What’s so scary about that? It’s only  _me_.” He tries to laugh.

But Harry doesn’t, only shakes his head, even more distressed. “That’s the point. It’s  _you_ , Louis. That’s why I can’t.”

“What? I don’t—I don’t understand?” Louis says, his resolve starting to crumble.

Harry lets his eyes fall shut, breathing out faintly, but his hands are trembling uncontrollably, loosely gripping onto Louis’. “It‘s better that we end it now, because it’ll hurt us less in the long run. Before we...” Harry pauses, his big round eyes opening up again, searching Louis’ with pinched brows. “Right? That’s what you said? he maintains. “ _Just don’t_   _fall in love_   _with me, and it’ll be fine_ _._ That’s what you said,” he repeats, voice cracking. “You  _said_  that, Louis! I didn’t forget, and you never said anything different so—”

“Jesus Christ, I didn’t mean—” Louis starts in disbelief.

“Didn’t you?” Harry accuses.

He did mean it at the time. He wasn’t looking for anything. But then he found Harry. Things changed.  _That was a fucking joke,_   _though,_  he thinks. How could Harry have taken that so seriously?

“You said that, too,” Louis says bleakly. “You continuously asked if I was still okay with this being the way it was.”

"And you never said you weren't, Louis," Harry defends. 

Louis closes his mouth, jaw set. He's right. He didn’t.

Harry breathes out, releasing his wrists from Louis’ grip, slumping back on his legs. “It has to end at some point, Lou.” His voice is quivering now. It’s so raw sounding and Louis has to refrain from sitting in his lap, from pawing at his face, his body, just to stop these words coming out of his mouth.

Louis doesn’t want it to end. Fuck, he can’t let this end. He wipes at his eyes furiously before any tears can seep out. He will not cry. "No, it doesn't. Why do you keep saying that? You don’t have to do this?”

Harry stubbornly shakes his head. “No, I do, because if we let this carry on longer, if we let it go further, it’s just gonna hurt us more in the end.” Harry wipes a shaky hand over his face. His breaths are growing shallow. “That’s just the way it is,” he mutters. “Everything ends up the same way.”

“That is so depressing,” Louis says, giving him a pointed look. “That is the worst way to look at life. I know you’ve been hurt. I know you’re upset about your parents' split. I know you’re sad. I know you have things going on right now that are hard. Are difficult. I  _know._  But don’t let all that shit turn you into a cynical person, please, Harry. That isn’t you.”

“Louis, that’s how things work! People fall in love, they get married and they still end up getting fucking divorced, no matter how much they think they’re different. It’s gonna end eventually because everything always does. Look at Liam! He made his relationship official after years of chasing Sophie and then they broke up a year later? What was the point? It happened to Perrie. And Jesy. Todd!”

"Who the fuck is Todd?" Louis screeches, throwing his hands up, like that's the important bit here.

But Harry’s upper body is properly convulsing now, and he's raking his hands through his hair erratically to cover up his shaky hands. But Louis sees them, concern seeping into his chest. “I thought my parents loved each other. I thought they’d be together until they were old. But it’s not like that. Something always happens to stop it. It’s always something. This won’t be like that—I don’t want that to happen to us, Louis. I—why can’t things just stay like they are now?” he pleads.

“Five seconds ago you wanted to dump me,” Louis quips, incredulous. "And that is a fucking ridiculous excuse for us not to try, Harry. I'm not asking you to marry me, for Christ's sake! We’re young. I'm asking to date you. Be with me,” he says, softer.

“Be with you?” Harry repeats, dazed.

“Yes! I want to be with you, you idiot. I want us to be together. Properly. Tell me really, that you don’t want that, too.”

“It wouldn’t work,” Harry says, eyes shut.

“Why not?”

Harry hides his face in his hands. He's shaking like a leaf. “I need to think."

“Okay,” Louis says, calmer, taking his hands from his face and holding them in his own. “Think here. Let’s talk. Tell me why you don't think it'll work. Just give me a reason, and I'll accept it, okay?”

"I told you why," Harry whispers harshly.

"Not everything is made to fall apart, Harry!” Louis can’t help but shout, wild with frustrated anger. “Some things are meant to hold. To last. No matter what shit gets thrown their way, alright? They’re meant to stick together through shit and hell and back again. And they do. It works. It's hard, yeah. But there’s living proof of it in this world. There's so much of it, Harry." Louis moves closer, taking Harry’s face in his hands, thumbs wiping away his tear tracks but hesitant to close the remaining, unacceptable distance between them. He's trembling like crazy, skin blotchy, sweat beading on his forehead, and Louis wonders with a panicked jolt whether Harry might have another panic attack in a minute. "Look," he says gently, "if you really don’t want to be with me, Harry, that’s fine. Okay? I’ll leave you alone.”

Harry looks up at that, wide-eyed.

“But don’t sprout fatalist shit about it not being meant to last, okay? Not to  _me_.”

Harry’s face crumples and he crawls over to Louis, pulling him to his chest. Louis instantly knocks their foreheads together, arms winding around his waist tightly, hoping he’ll be able to force this bullshit away, get through to him if he holds him tight enough. “I’m sorry, but I can't give you what you want. Not right now.” He pulls back, looking at Louis as though he wants to challenge him, almost? Like he wants Louis to stop what he’s saying? To change his mind? But he’s still saying these things, isn’t he? 

"But why?" Louis implores, his desperation cracking his voice. 

“You’re my best friend, Lou, and I don’t want to hurt you. I can’t ruin things. And I will. I'll ruin them."

“You already have,” Louis says, hollow. Harry blanches, and Louis instantly regrets the words, despite wanting to stay angry. “Don’t leave me,” he pleads. 

“I’m not leaving you."

“You are, though.”

It's quiet. Harry carefully releases himself from Louis' arms, like he doesn't want to, but he's forcing himself to anyway. "I think I should go." Harry hurriedly gets up off of the bed, off-balance, like he's dizzy, and re-adjusts his clothes, ruffling his hair up manically with his hand, his still shaking hand, ducking his head and not making eye contact. “I have to go, Lou. I’ll... I’ll call you, okay?” he rushes out.

“Where are you going?” Louis leans up on his knees. Fuck. He can't go. This can't be it.

"Manchester," Harry answers distractedly, collecting a random slew of items from Louis' room—a watch from his bedside table, a shirt lying crumpled on the floor, pausing over his grey hoodie on the back of Louis' desk chair. He leaves it there. "Gotta get the train," he says faintly. He walks to the door, hovering by it for a moment, and then turns back, looking at Louis with wide, despairing eyes. “Fuck,” he whispers, rushing back over to him, Louis' chest soaring with hopefulness as he presses a firm kiss to Louis’ cheek, another to his forehead, then darts back to the door again. “Fuck, I’m so, so sorry." He exhales, looking like he's completely lost. "I'll talk to you soon, yeah?”

And he’s gone.

Several minutes pass of Louis not moving. Then he finally falls backwards onto the mattress, allowing a long-since, built-up surge of frustrated tears to escape his eyes. After a few minutes, the lights start to flicker, and he shoves on the hoodie Harry left behind, jams his earbuds in and storms out into the bucketing rain.

**

Harry sits at the train station, feeling utterly wretched, his hastily packed bag perched between his legs in front of the refreshments point, tugging obsessively on the sleeves of his hoodie underneath his coat, willing away the thick grey fog enveloping his thoughts. His breaths are short and shaky, and he’s slowly becoming more panicked, a trapped, claustrophobic feeling coming over him quickly, a coil of painful tightness in his chest, so he tries to focus his attention on something else.

Like the fact it’s raining. Properly raining. He watches blankly as torrential rain—more like hailstones, he mindlessly notes—crashes aggressively against the edge of the platform. But miserably, it does nothing to help, only matches the sobs escaping Harry’s chapped lips as he debates whether he should run back home, or back to the boy who’s become  _home_  to him in a brand new way right under his nose, without really wanting him to, the two juxtaposing ideas playing on a loop as the white noise grows louder in his head.

This is such a mess. He's got a million conflicting feelings and thoughts circling his mind like a tornado, pulling him in opposite directions. 

Because Harry can’t be what Louis thinks he can. God, he wants so much to be, and he probably  _could_ —some day. Harry’s been better lately. Worlds better than he was last year. He was almost beginning to feel like he was back to how he was before. 

But Louis doesn’t see the times Harry feels so lost and lifeless. The times when Harry can barely get out of bed. To find any motivation at all. To find interest, or belief, or awareness in any of the things he used to love, the things he thought he was good at. To not be able to concentrate on anything for more than five seconds, or to even manage the smallest of tasks. The most meaningless, simple things become such huge problems to complete. To hate yourself, wanting to do more, constantly worrying about not doing that, but physically not being able to at the same time. 

He wasn’t there when Harry would have a panic attack before class every day. When he would be so terrified, so anxious to step outside, to walk around town for fear that someone from school would recognise him and ask about what happened.

_"You're fucking gay?"_

_"Since when are you into dudes?"_

_"You know he has a girlfriend, right? She's going to Oxford."_

What happened at the party that night when Harry kissed Mikael and turned his world upside down.

_"He's never going to like you. He's straight, for one thing."_

_"He hates you."_

All because of a fucking  _kiss._

_"You've ruined everything."_

_A kiss._

Harry runs his hands through his hair, burying his fingers beneath his curls, tugging hard on thick clumps. 

Louis doesn’t know about the fight he got sucked into afterwards, before he ran out with a bloody nose, wrapped in a thick haze of humiliation that scarred him for weeks, months. That he had a complete breakdown and locked himself in his room for days before he worked up the courage to attend his classes again. And then he did and wished he hadn't.

He doesn't know that Harry couldn't even speak more than a few measly words to his own mum, who’d been desperately worried about him, hugging him to the point of near suffocation, guilt and embarrassment tearing themselves from his chest when tears slipped from her own eyes as Harry cried into her arms. Hating himself more for causing her to worry, not knowing what was wrong, and Harry not really understanding what was wrong either.

He got so behind with his course, that he practically failed his first assessment because he couldn’t make himself do anything, barely even tried. The overwhelming guilt and simultaneous dullness he felt because of his failures. He ended up isolating himself from his friends, wouldn’t go out, got so depressed and saddled with anxiety that he could barely eat.

He doesn’t want to unload all of this onto Louis if they get together for real. Because what if something happens to him and Louis? What if things get ruined because Harry goes through another rough patch? He's knows it's coming. What if he suddenly gets so down again without warning, and he shuts Louis out?

Everything’s been okay so far, but what if he pushes Louis too hard at some point, and it suddenly becomes too much? What if he gets so sad that he just ruins it?

Louis wanted simple, too, didn’t he? To begin with. And Harry thought if they were just a fun thing, if they weren't serious, if they never went further, it would be fine. Harry could handle that. There'd be no pressure to not let Louis down. 

Because Louis has his own problems to deal with. He doesn’t need the burden of Harry’s issues as well. He can’t do that to him. Even if he was amazing with him that night at Liam’s party. And all Harry wanted was Louis, to calm him down, to comfort him, to make things better. However temporary. He’s never like that with anyone. He doesn’t want anyone to touch him, to be near him when he’s having an anxiety attack or a depressive episode.

Louis is the exception.

But he’s going to hurt Louis. If not now, then soon—if he hasn’t already considering the shitty way he’s left things. Another wracked sob rips itself from Harry’s mouth, his top lip growing damp with his tears and his runny nose.

Eventually, Harry will make Louis tired. He’ll hurt him, and it will be too much. It’ll suck the joy out of them, of what they have. The simplicity, the stillness. Louis doesn’t deserve to have to put up with his messes, his episodes, his erratic mood swings.

Harry can’t ruin what they have.  _Couldn’t ruin that._

That’s why he’s incapable of committing to this. To give Louis what he seems to want now.

(What Harry  _does_  want, too.)

It’s too fast, anyway. Right? It’s only been a few months. Harry’s just not ready to hand over all the most hidden, intimate, difficult parts of himself to Louis. 

It feels so stupid, so juvenile. He knows that Louis thinks he’s being ridiculous. That everyone does. But it makes sense to Harry. He can rationalise his behaviour to himself, and yet at the same time, absolutely loathe himself for being so useless, so afraid, so bloody riddled with irrational anxiety to attempt to make this work.

Relationships shouldn’t be scary. He wants to be happy. He wants that love, and support, and trust. He just wants to stop feeling so hopeless. He wants to be the best for Louis. He wants to be with Louis.

He might even _love_ Louis.

And it’s terrifying to him. Because what if he loses him? He has something to lose now. Something more precious to Harry than he's ever had in his life.

Except, he has lost, hasn’t he? He might not even have him as a friend now. He’s fucked it all. And it’s his own fault.

Harry allows another wave of fresh tears to trickle down his already wet cheeks, passerby vaguely staring at him, and he hates it. It makes his skin crawl to have drawn attention to himself, caring too much about what they think of him, of how he looks to them, still.

He hates it. But still he cries because he can’t stop, feeling endlessly pathetic, numb and so, so exhausted.

He's just so tired.

He boards the train, anyway, looking over his shoulder for something. For Louis. Willing him to come bounding down the platform to tell him not to go, to scream at him and kiss him until their mouths are aching.

But how he can expect that to happen? After all the shit Harry has told him repeatedly? How can he think Louis knows to come for him? When Harry has told him the opposite. Every time. Over and over again. Stupid. So fucking idiotic. If they just talked more. If Harry could make himself open up properly, try to make Louis understand how his fucking mind works. How he wishes it didn’t work this way, but it does.

Things would be all right. Louis would make it that way, wouldn’t he? He’d  _try._ Because he's strong, and full of hope, and belief, even if it's not for himself. He's those things for Harry.

But Harry hasn’t given him the chance to try. He’s run away. Again.

He finds an empty carriage, sending Louis a text he knows he'll get no reply from, and collapses into a seat by the window. He stares dully at the rain streaking down it, clutching his bag close to his chest like it’s a lifeline, his forlorn gaze hooked on the blurry dissonance of the world from behind the glass.

**

_Taking the train home tonight. We'll talk soon? x_

Louis is staring at the message from Harry (it's slowly poking multiple holes into his chest) when he hears a squelch of tires pulling up to the kerb, and is pathetically mid-song to Nada Surf's cover of 'If You Leave' (damn Harry’s obsession with The OC's soundtrack.) God, he can't stop worrying. Wondering if he's okay. Where he is. If he's really at the station or if he's actually lying in a ditch somewhere with a head injury.

It takes several more seconds before he hears a familiar voice above him, eyes still locked on his phone's screen.

“Come here, mate.”

Louis squints through the rain, his tears, whatever, to see Liam smiling apologetically down at him, his eyes pitying.

Great.

He must look like a right sorry lump, curled up on this sopping wet bench, nursing his broken heart.

The culprit of which is probably already boarding a train at this very moment. Another choked sob climbs up his throat and escapes his lips in a strangled whine.

Liam’s steady arms are suddenly wrapping around him and picking him up like he’s his bloody knight in shining armour. He clings to him with all his might, hiding his face in Liam’s warm, dry neck as he carries him to the car.

Louis climbs into the passenger seat and draws his knees to his chest, staring at the water droplets streaming down the window as Liam, thankfully, drives them back to campus in comfortable silence. Or as comfortable as it can be when Louis feels like his heart has been splintered beyond repair.

"We can't really go back to halls, yet. Power is still out, according to Perrie, so I'll take you back to mine, yeah?" Liam keeps shooting him worried glances.

"I wanna get drunk," Louis says, to the point, because if the rain didn't drown him, he'd really like to get smashed.

"Lou, you're soaked. We'll go back to mine first so you can get changed at least."

"It's just a house party. I'll go like this. I don't fucking care."

"Lou, you've been sitting in the rain for god knows how long. Was it your actual goal to catch fucking hypothermia?" 

"Fine," Louis sighs. He has the good sense to know when Liam starts to swear, he should shut up.

Half an hour later, Louis trudges inside halls, dejected and feeling precisely like he’s been sitting in ice cold rain for the better part of an hour, Liam in tow, cautiously hovering closely behind him.

He collapses into a chair at the kitchen table, numb, vaguely aware of Liam saying something about getting him dried off, and that the power is back on at last, disappearing for a minute to get him a towel. He returns fairly quickly, and like a true mother hen, he starts to rub him vigorously up and down, tapping his shoulder to get Louis to remove his sopping wet hoodie. It makes a heavy splat on the floor. Liam hands him a dry one, but not before he makes him take off his t-shirt. Where did he even get those?

“Liam. I told you. We’re not going to happen.” He smirks, slipping off the shirt and letting it slap to the floor next to his hoodie. Harry's hoodie.

Liam tilts his head, unimpressed. “So? Were you _trying_  to make yourself ill out there, or what?”

Louis gives him a pointed look. He was _trying_  to feel sorry for himself in peace, actually. Swedish popstar Robyn was more than enough company for him, but hypothermia would have been a welcome distraction, to be honest.

“Can we go get drunk now? I need to get smashed as soon as.” He stands up, intending on changing into a pair of jeans when Liam’s hand stops him by clasping his bicep.

“Lou, do you want to talk about what happened?”

“No,” Louis mutters. “I want to forget a curly headed first-year ever existed.”

“You don’t mean that," Liam frowns. "Come on, I want to help, mate. You were there when Soph broke up with me."

Louis wants to immediately protest that Harry hasn't broken up with him. But then they'd have to have been together for that to happen.

"I was a complete, sodding wreck. And you were a saint of a friend to me, Louis. You  _are_ a saint of a friend. So let me return the favour, yeah? Why don’t we order a takeaway, and have an Iron Man marathon, or something, yeah? Anything you want and I'll do it. Are you sure you don’t want to talk? We can do that, too."

Louis lets himself smile. “Li, thank you for picking me up and rescuing me, as per usual. And I’m sorry I ruined your night. I love you, yeah? But please, can we just go out and forget you found me like a sodden, lost dog."

“You’re not a bloody dog, Jesus,” Liam scolds. “You’re a cat, obviously.”

Louis rolls his eyes, trying to bite back his smile despite himself.

“Get your jeans on, then. We’ll walk to the party now that the rain’s stopped. I want more than one beer this time.”

Before Liam can move though, Louis reaches up and buries his face in Liam’s clean smelling neck, catching the scent of lingering aftershave. Liam wraps his arms around Louis’ waist and squeezes him tight. “You’re a good mate, Li. Thank you.”

“Always, Lou.” Liam pats him on the bum and chuckles as Louis darts to his room.

**

The beats are so loud, Louis can barely think as he sits atop one of the six stools crowded around a high top table in the center of the bar—which they moved to because Louis couldn’t stand the unusually loved-up crowd at the party they were meant to be at, or the annoying string of Christmas songs they had playing. He’s pathetically slumped over, taking up most of the table’s surface with his arms, feeling absolutely miserable.

Doesn’t quell his thirst for vodka based drinks, though. Those can keep coming. And of course he hasn't put his phone away once. 

“Lou, are you okay?” Niall asks him for the forty-second time tonight, his hand rubbing his shoulder in a way that’s too heavy handed, forcing him to think about Harry’s hand doing exactly this. His touch languid and gentle, as though Louis was some precious, delicate thing that needed to be handled with care.

But where is he now, eh? Halfway to Manchester, probably.

Louis’ throat closes up thickly, his eyes burning. Niall’s face twists into alarmed concern. “Alright, that’s it. Come on.” He hops down and practically picks Louis up, tugging him along until they reach the toilets.

“Talk. Spill your guts out. I’m ready to catch them, Tommo, okay?” He holds Louis’ arms, facing him and staring at Louis with expectant brows, his clear blue eyes filled with worry. “Where’s Harry? Something's happened, hasn't it? Shit, what happened, Lou? Is Harry okay? Are you okay? I know I gave you two shit for not talking about your feelings but Harry's a sensitive guy. He's so sad, Lou. I didn't mean to push you into something before you were both ready?”

"Are you joking? Niall, nothing's your fault," Louis insists, pulling his head close. God, he really might cry in a minute.

_He's so sad, Lou.._

Oh, fuck. He knows this. But he was so busy falling in love, he forgot to make sure Harry was okay. He needs to speak to him. "Can someone try and call Harry? He's not answering," Louis asks, anxiety settling in his bones. Why didn't he think to ask if he was feeling okay? Did he ask enough? God, he doesn't know. What if something's happened?

But then the door slams back open, Perrie marching in and stopping right in front of the two of them in the men’s bathroom.

“Liam can't get through to Harry? I checked his room and half his stuff's gone?” Perrie says, brows furrowed, eyes wide in alarm as she cups his cheek and uses the back of her hand to feel his sweaty forehead. “You look like—”

“—my heart’s been splintered into fucking pieces?” Louis very nearly wails, everything is overwhelming. His head is pounding. He slumps forwards, caught by Niall’s arms. Louis buries his face in his neck, wishing it was Harry’s scent he was inhaling but still feeling incredibly comforted by his friend, who’s so worried about him, despite the high concentration of spirits in his system. It warms the cold, broken shackles of Louis’ heart and he clings on, hoping another body will help glue his back together. “I didn’t tell him I loved him. I just let him end it and now he’s gone. I’ve fucked it all up because I’m an incompetent, scared twat! You think so! You all do. Admit it.”

“Oh, don’t be so stupid,” Niall snaps, immediately softening when Louis scowls, pulling away from Niall's embrace and letting Perrie hold him instead. He's focusing on the flowery scent of her perfume when the bathroom door swings open again, Mikael of all people appearing from behind the doorway, briefly allowing the ear-splitting EDM beats inside the bathroom, and looking particularly dishevelled and worse for wear, unbalanced and holding a bottle.

They stare at each other for a heavy moment.

Louis expects him to introduce himself, say something snarky, insult him or Harry. Something horrible, anyway.

“Oh, uhhh. I’ll come back,” is all he says quietly, a despondent expression on his face as he stumbles back into the club.

Louis wipes the wetness from beneath his eyes just as Niall turns to look at him.

“Who the fuck was that?”

“Harry’s—he used to be a friend of Harry’s. Until he fucked Harry over.”

“Shit. That’s Mikael, right?”

“You never met him before?” Louis asks confusedly.

“No. I didn’t see Harry much during the time they were friends. I saw him sometimes, obviously. And yeah, I recognise him now. He looks wasted, for sure,” Niall frowns. “Always seemed like bad news to me. Harry was a bit too wrapped up in him and he took advantage of that.” He pauses. “Hey, I'm gonna go find Liam to make sure Harry's okay, alright?" Niall tells him tentatively. 

And he wants him to. Louis might feel like shit right now, but he does want to know Harry got home safe.

"I need to speak to him." Louis stumbles over to the door.

"Harry?"

"Mikael."

Louis' knocked by the sheer volume of the thumping music as the bathroom door opens, his vision blurred, squinting every time a neon light shines directly in his eyes. He spots Mikael by the bar and fights his way through the moving crowd until he comes face to face with him.

"You've got ten seconds to tell me what you want and why you keep following Harry, or there's going to be some _very_ unfortunate rumours going around," Louis glares.

There's a faint grimace on his dry lips. His shirt collar is askew, and he's wearing an expensive looking cross pendant. He looks like shit. "You're Harry's... Um, you're friends, right?"

Louis eyes the pendant for another moment, replying with a cold, “That's right. And you're the slimy, cowardly prick who drove him out of university, correct?"

His eyes flash with what appears to be guilt. He looks away. The music thumps on around them.

“Look, I know I've been a complete fuck to him, okay? I know how much I hurt him. I know how shitty it was to... do that... And I know you're just looking out for Harry. But I just wanted to apologise. That's why I've been trying to see him. I’m not here to cause trouble, okay?" He pauses, staring at the floor. "Not anymore.”

Louis studies him closely, watches the way he’s hunched in on himself, the way he won’t look at Louis for long, the way his hand incessantly rakes through his greasy hair nervously. He looks small, despite his height. He's taller than Harry, he notes. And he’s uncomfortable. Severely. But he sounds kind of genuine. Louis' a bit disappointed. He would have loved to drag him a bit more. Wreck his car, break his perfect nose. He still wants to.

Mikael’s murky gaze meets Louis’. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to punch me right now. I know I’m the reason Harry got so... unwell.” His mouth is twisted, downturned. 

Louis scoffs, smiles unkindly. "Believe me, I want to. You can't even begin to imagine what you put him through."

Mikael darts his eyes away. "I know," he mumbles. “I just wanted to apologise for what I did."

Louis gives him a long, hard look. “So go fucking tell him yourself.”

"I've tried to," Mikael protests, frowning. "But he won't see me."

"Well try _harder_ ," Louis glares, "or I _will_ break your nose." He shoves past him, shoves past everyone until he gets outside. He's shivering, but he gets out his phone anyway. 

The dial tone rings until it goes to voicemail.

"Harry, please, when you get this, tell me you're alright and that you got home okay, yeah? Because I'm so worried. I just need to know you're okay. Call me back."

 _It’ll be okay_ , Louis thinks. _It has to be._


	9. Nine

 

Three days later, it’s the night of the New Young Artists showcase.

Louis isn’t expecting Harry to go. He’s not even sure if he ended up submitting anything. He was supposed to be—not that Louis knows what he chose.

The room is a typical exhibition. Immaculate white boards adorned with all the framed pieces for public consumption. A few waiters and waitresses handing out glasses of champagne on silver platters, new tiny appetizers appearing every twenty minutes or so. Mindless conversations between art dealers and art lovers alike prattling on in every corner of the room, stretching on for hours.

Still, Louis came.

He’s not sure why.

He’s especially not sure why he’s still here, hours later.

Alice kept him company as much as she could. He really does like her. He’s starting to suspect the announcement his father wants to make in the New Year is that they’re engaged. Louis never thought that would happen. But then Alice seems like she’s really managed to mellow out his father.

Louis’ going to reserve that judgement, though. He’s not completely convinced he’s realised the error of his ways, or the extent of his shitty parenting.

“You should go home, Louis,” Alice says to him now, dressed in a sleek, black dress, her bob of red hair a shock against it, her eyes kind. “You’ve been here for hours and yet you’ve barely looked at any of the portraits apart from when you came in.”

Louis looks at her, unsure of what to tell her.

“You used to draw, didn’t you? Managed an A in your GCSE Art exam, I heard?”

Louis snorts, amused. “That was years ago. I basically only drew lions.”

Alice laughs. “Still. They looked pretty good to me."

Louis stares at her, brows pinched. "How would you know?" he asks, doesn't listen properly to something about the loft in their house, too caught off guard by the knowing glint in her eyes.

"Why lions, anyway?"

Louis lets his mouth curve, releases a puff of air. "They made me feel a bit a stronger when I was feeling really shitty. I was a pensive teenager, a bit shy." Louis shrugs.

"You should take it up again some time," Alice suggests, her eyes still studying him closely. “Looking for something in particular?” she asks, following his line of vision, where Louis is back to staring intently at each portrait, trying to look for any sign, any quirk that indicates it’s Harry’s work.

“I don’t know, to be honest." Louis musters a faint smile.

She hums. “Why don’t you check out the other side?” Alice prompts. “They’re really something.” She adjusts the collar of his t-shirt, smoothing down his blazer jacket.

“Any reason why?” Louis asks suspiciously.

“There’s just one or two especially beautiful pieces you’ve not looked at. You might be interested in their themes, their ideas, perhaps.”

“Right, okay," Louis says, as she wanders over to a couple of women standing by an obscure, grim painting of a man who appears to be drowning. It gives him the creeps so... why not?

He walks round to the other side of the exhibition when his father appears beside him.

“Can I help you?” Louis mutters wearily. “If you’ve come to tell me I’ve embarrassed you in some way again, I’d rather skip that part and just leave, if it’s all the same to you.” He swipes his fringe out of his eyes as he takes another glass of red off a passing platter. They’re only small glasses, so he gulps two thirds of the wine down.

“Steady,” his father says.

Louis holds his gaze as he finishes it off and puts it back on another empty platter. He looks over at Alice, who's appeared again by a different painting. There's barely anyone left around now, several more guests leaving as it approaches nine o'clock. He catches the meaningful glance Alice sends his father's way. His father sees her and takes a deep breath, slipping his hands behind his back, his perfectly tailored suit annoyingly pristine and unrumpled.

Louis' rolled his own blazer up to his arms. He knows his father hates it when he does that.

He looks back at Louis. His jaw sets. He almost seems uneasy in Louis' presence. Not that it's that unusual. But still. He seems nervous?

What's even weirder is that his father isn't saying a word about his outfit. He always tells him off, tells him to sort out to appearance when it's anything less than flawless. Louis honestly thought he'd tell him to leave when he saw his Smiths t-shirt underneath it. 

It's freaking Louis out, if he's honest. "What now?" he sighs. "What have I done wrong this time?"

"Nothing," his father replies after a moment, surprisingly free of disdain.

Louis feels uncomfortable. "Okay," he drawls, starting to walk away. He shakes his head, irritated.

“Styles is a very talented young man,” his father states, but there’s less of an edge to it.

Louis stops. "You finally met Harry, then?" he asks cautiously. 

His father nods. "I did. He's a charming boy. Alice has really taken to him. They had a long, productive conversation, so I'm told." His voice sounds serious. Genuine, even. Louis frowns at him, confused. “Alice has taken to you, too,” he says after a long pause. “She’s... extremely fond of you.” He subtly clears his throat. “She believes you’re going to reach high places.”

Louis lets his eyes really look at him, tracing the wrinkles by his eyes, his set jaw, the stubble that lines it, his greying, hard brows. “And what about you?” he huffs out a humourless laugh, not sure why he’s even asking. “You put her right back in her optimistic place about me, I bet.”

There’s a stilted silence.

“I agree with her, actually.” His tone is still bland, but it might be the closest he’s ever gotten to a compliment since he was still in primary school.

Louis stiffens, eyes incredulous. His father looks no better. Alice is smiling in the corner, before she wanders away.

He diverts his gaze and changes the subject, feeling disorientated, unsettled.  This is too... He can’t focus right now. Not when Harry is tugging on his mind. “Did Harry submit a piece? In the end?"

“He did."

Louis' eyes immediately scan the room, eyes darting over the portraits, trying to figure out which one is Harry's without reading the labels.

"He seems to have found quite the rousing muse.” His father tears his gaze from something behind Louis, and settles his blue gaze back onto him. Properly. Curiously. Like, he’s really  _seeing_  Louis this time... Like, he's really _looking_ , or something. Louis doesn’t know. He probably shouldn’t read too much into all this. He’s learned the hard way many times before that it usually means nothing. He’s in a good mood, that’s all. Had a few too many glasses of champagne, most likely. Louis has too, to be fair. His thoughts are too drenched in wine to make sense of this bizarre exchange.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” his father replies, resolutely, face strangely unreadable. There’s a few more moments of silence. He’s still not left yet. Jesus, just how high is the man? “I... heard your presentation went well last week?”

“It went fine,” Louis says slowly, eyeing him suspiciously. He’s never asked about school. Not really.

His father nods. “Good.” He pauses, seemingly unsure. “That’s good.”

It feels different between them. Somehow. Good different, maybe? Louis swallows, daring to feel a little bit... hopeful.

“Ah, Mr Styles. You _are_  still here. I believe you’re well acquainted with my son.”

Harry's here? How long has he been here? Oh, god. Has he already seen Louis? Has he been watching him?

Louis goes rigid, meeting his father’s gaze with panic. His father seems to catch the urgency in his face, and shockingly seems to go to Harry instead, rather than waiting for him to come to him.

He exhales in relief, not ready to face Harry properly yet.

It's been three days since he saw him. One text promising they'd talk. And another just saying he was home, and that he was okay.

And now he's _here_?

It’s a lot to deal with and he’s scared shitless that Harry isn’t going to tell Louis the same things he’s been telling their friends. Because apparently Harry will reply to Niall, and even Liam, but not Louis.

Louis stands completely still in the middle of the gallery, four walls of pristine white, evened out by the bright colours of the art on display against the pallid backdrop, trying to calm himself down. He can speak to Harry. He can do this. It'll be fine.

It's then that he sees it.

To his left. Above him.

Louis gazes up at the large canvas, indigos, dark violets, emeralds and varying shades of charcoals woven together as the base, the sea, pink and white flower petals strewn throughout, drowning beneath the stormy waves. A silver moon hovers at the top of the canvas, partially concealed by dark clouds.

And below that in the centre, sitting at the bottom, the largest part of the composition.

Is... Louis?

An intricately detailed portrait of Louis.

In the painting, his eyes are closed, his skin golden, his eyelashes fanning out over the tops of his cheeks, glowing a soft pink, as are his eyelids, swept with a dash of pale maroon, touched by the tips of his fringe.

And framing his face is a halo, a ring of yellow carnations, bundles of white roses, butterflies, and rays of bright light spreading outward in stark contrast to the overcast, murky background. The golden light radiating off Louis seems to be travelling up towards the hidden moon, seemingly personified, an almost invisible, contented expression painted over the grey, catching Louis’ glow, absorbing it, bringing it out from the darkness of the rest of the painting.

There’s a faint smile curving portrait Louis’ lips, his features drawn incredibly accurately.

Louis swallows thickly, the soft patter of footsteps coming up behind him, and then the sound of a familiar voice makes his insides spin. "Hi."

Slowly, Louis turns sideways to see Harry standing next to him, his face a picture of anxiety and nerves. He's just dressed in a plain white t-shirt and his usual ripped jeans, a black blazer thrown over the top of his t-shirt. He's breathtaking. 

Louis’ missed him. He...

"What do you think? Mess or... a bigger mess?" 

"No, Harry, it's... incredible. I can’t believe—actually, I can believe it. It’s amazing, Harry,” he breathes in a daze, shell-shocked. "I'm really proud of you."

Harry takes an audible breath. Louis can barely breathe either.

Because Harry painted  _Louis._  This is what he chose to submit for the exhibition. His father’s gallery. 

_Louis._

Harry nibbles on his lip, hands clasped behind his back. “Thank you,” he says quietly, unsure, stuffing his hands into his jeans.

“You painted me?”

Harry nods. “It’s  _for you_.”

Louis just stares.

“Who else would it be for, Lou?” Harry smiles, a lingering, resigned sadness dripping from his pores.

“But I thought—why would you paint me?“

“Because... it’s because of you I'm even here. You've brought meaning back to my life again, Louis,” Harry says earnestly, eyes dark saucers, only a ring of bright green in them, shining. “I couldn't paint. I couldn't do anything. I was so lost. And then I met you. I might not be painting again if it wasn’t for you. I might have dropped out again.” Harry sniffs, eyes beginning to well up rapidly. He takes a tentative step closer, causing Louis’ heart to speed up almost painfully, thudding away in there and travelling up to his throat. "God, who the fuck am I? Peyton Sawyer?" he quips, wiping at his face.

Louis huffs out an amused puff of air. "Knew there was a reason I went after you. You've both got the tortured artist thing going on, the sad eyes and the  _curls_." He shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

Harry laughs wetly, a soft sound. "Any minute now and I'll break out The Cure."

Louis stares at him, watching Harry's fearful eyes brim with moisture. “Seriously, though, Harry. I’m not—I’m not the reason your motivation's come back,” he scoffs, but not unkindly, more out of sheer disbelief that Harry’s suggesting his muse is back because of  _him._ “You found it on your own. This is your talent.”

“No, it is the reason,” Harry insists hoarsely. "It's you, Louis."

"Don't be stupid," Louis frowns, waving him off. "Give yourself some credit."

"Why is that so hard to believe?” Harry argues. “Do you really have no clue how incredible you are? Louis, people fall over themselves to spend time with you. You're the sun, Lou. Everyone else just orbits around you. You're the ultimate fucking muse, and you don't see any of it. I'm learning to come out of my shell because of your help. Okay, I have to do it on my own, too, but you make me feel comfortable enough to try."

Is that true? Louis thinks Harry does just fine on his own. “Harry—“

“No. Please. Let me say this, or I’ll just—I’ll combust,” Harry shakes his head wildly, taking another step forward, bolder.

Louis feels his mouth twitch, his resolve quickly dissipating.

They’re almost completely alone now, everyone having slowly left the gallery, only a couple of the organisers are left behind, gathering up leaflets and some people are clearing up the leftover food and empty champagne glasses. They’re at the far end though, not nearly close enough to hear their conversation, but Harry whispers anyway, and it’s almost like he’s speaking so quietly in case he scares Louis away, that maybe if he speaks too loud, or is a tad overly passionate, Louis will make a run for it and leave him here with his words and his art and on his own.

But he needn’t worry. Louis’ feet are stuck to the ground indefinitely.

"All of it. Everything I've painted up to now, everything I've drawn since I met you—it’s because of you.” A lone tear falls down Harry’s rosy cheek and he hastily wipes it away. “Because Louis, none of it, all the nice things people have said tonight, all the praise, the credit. It means nothing if I don’t have you next to me. I just want to share it all with you. The good things, the bad things. Everything. With you.”

Louis’ breath catches in his throat and he takes a shaky step backwards. Harry’s eyes widen, seemingly panicked but he continues on, carefully taking another step forward.

“Look, I made a mistake in thinking we could ever be less than _everything_.” Harry searches his gaze urgently. “I just haven't been able to believe I could have this. That I'd be good enough for you. And, look, like... I know that—that all this, it might not sound very healthy, and kind of dramatic? But I don’t fucking care.” He inhales. “I just care about  _you_.”

The words, the sheer pleading tone—they go straight through to Louis’ innards, burying themselves deep underneath his skin, amongst his flesh.

“So why’d you leave, then?” Louis asks quietly, itching with the need to just touch him. 

Harry's face is pained. “Louis, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have just run off. I don’t want you to think I would just do that if things got tough. Because I wouldn't. I’d never. It’s just... I needed to get my head together," he says, frantic.

"Harry, that's okay. If you needed the time, it's okay. You don't have to apologise for what you're feeling."

"You’re always so nice to me," Harry rumbles sadly.

"Because you deserve good things, Harry. Don't ever think you don't,” he tells him firmly.

"Even though I messed you around? I spent the whole time stupidly reminding you that I didn’t want a relationship, because I thought it was some kind of... doomed thing, to put a label on us. And then when Luke made it clear to me he liked you—I just—I knew I had to stop being selfish. I couldn’t just keep you to myself. Except I couldn't stop then. Not yet.”

“I wanted you to keep me."

Harry blinks up at him owlishly. He lets out an exhale so soft. Louis just wants to wrap him up with his arms, keep him nestled to his chest and kiss his cheeks. “I asked Liam if you were looking for anything more serious, like, a boyfriend, at the auction, you know."

“He told me.” Louis frowns. "That was before you knew about Luke, though?"

"I know," Harry nods, holding his gaze. "Liam told me you only wanted to have fun, that you'd never been into that, so I thought... if I can keep him like this, it'll be okay. I couldn't mess it up because there wouldn't really be anything  _to_  mess up? I wouldn't have to worry so much."

“What does that mean? I worry about  _you_ ,” Louis blurts out, his voice echoing in the quiet gallery. The lights seemed to have dimmed slightly. Alice isn't here. Neither is his father. "Are you okay?"

"I wasn't," Harry answers honestly. "I really thought I was going to... snap."

"You didn't tell me," Louis says sadly.

"I didn't want to cause a fuss. I didn't want to be too much for you."

"Harry, you'll never be too much. It's  _okay._  You're allowed to show everything you feel, whenever you feel it, you know? I know it's really hard to do that sometimes, but it's just me. I won't ever judge the thoughts you have. You can tell me anything. However nonsensical or morbid you think they are. I would have been there."

Harry stares, terrified eyes fastened tightly to Louis', his jittery frame balancing on a precipice. Louis thinks they probably look like mirrors right now. "Past tense?"

Louis rubs a hand up and down his arm, exhaling heavily. “ _I_  told you I wanted to be with you, and you ran away. I thought you didn't want me."

"I do," Harry nods. "But I got it into my head that I wouldn't be good for you.”

Louis’ face twists with concern. “That’s—“

“Louis,” Harry starts. “Last year, I was in a bad way. I was depressed and anxious all the time. I could barely leave my own house after I dropped out of uni. I was so sad one minute, and completely numb and blank the next. I pushed everyone I loved away. I was so scared it would happen again, that I'd end up hurting you and ruining everything. That's why I couldn't. Stupidly, I thought that if we didn't put a label on what we were doing, if it was never official, that it would hurt less when it ended, or something? It doesn't make sense, I know, but I was convinced it was going to end if we did. I was just so scared of losing you, and I thought if I could control the way we finished, it would be less... I thought I could deal with it."

"I ended up in the rain on the train platform, trying to defend everything to myself. That it was the right thing. That you were better off without me. You needed someone without my baggage, and you'd only seen the surface of it a couple of times. You didn't know the rest. And it might have been mostly fine up until then, but a bad patch could be around the corner. I was feeling so sad again, my anxiety flaring up the longer Mikael stayed around, reminding me of how I got before. But the truth is I've felt sad for longer, way before that happened. It wasn't all because of him. But the only times I felt good were when I was with you, so selfishly I tried to hold onto that. I knew things were changing between us, getting more serious, but I didn't want to acknowledge it."

Louis feels dreadful. Like he could have prodded harder. Like he might have been able to help him more. Harry was still depressed, and he didn't  _know_. Louis sighs shakily, taking another step closer. "I wish you'd talked to me," he says wistfully. "I could have helped you, Harry. I'd have listened." 

"I'm s—"

"Shhh." Louis gives him a reassuring smile. "No apologising, remember? Not for this. Did you really go all the way home?"

Harry nods. “Had a really, really long talk with my mum about everything.” He calms, wiping at his eyes. “But I spent the whole journey back thinking about you. About how much I’d fucked up by leaving things like that. And all I kept thinking was, ‘it’s really gonna fucking hurt when he leaves.’ I thought, even if we're just friends, that’s okay. Because I still had you. But I knew that wasn’t what I wanted. What I wanted was for you to follow me. I wanted it so badly. But I knew I hadn’t given you a reason to think I’d want that, so I had to make a gesture, right?” He gesticulates with his hands, his hair sticking up as he runs them through it. “Some grand, movie-style gesture. Something romantic,” he scoffs. “So I stayed up and painted this all night to get it finished in time for the deadline. I dropped it off this morning after some last-minute begging. Alice is a really nice lady. I talked to your father, too. He seemed kind of... I don’t want to say impressed but—"

“I think he is," Louis smiles. Harry returns it timidly. "Is that how you see me?” he asks, eyes flicking back to the painting.

Harry smiles sadly, but nods reverently. “I was so lost before I met you, Lou. You helped me find  _me_ again. You're so full of light. You radiate it, you shone it over me and helped me believe again. I don't think you get how important you are, Louis. You might think you're not capable of making someone feel whole, but you are. You're so good, and if you don't believe that, I'll believe in you for both of us. You deserve the best things. And I'll give them all to you this time. If you'll let me?"

“So what do you want now?” Louis asks the floor, playing with his rolled up sleeves. He glances up.

Harry is staring at him with a crease between his perfectly shaped brows. He rubs his nose with his knuckles as he always does.

Louis wants to hear it from Harry’s mouth. Word for word. Clear as day, so there’s absolutely no room for doubt. This is important. And every second spent standing opposite this boy is making him feel more and more unsteady. This pipe dream that he thought was Harry liking him back the way he does... is, maybe, becoming a reality.

But he needs to know for certain this time.

Harry's brows pinch with confusion. “I wantto be with you _,_  Louis."

Louis’ eyes widen, struck by the unfiltered honesty in Harry’s teary eyes, in the apprehension and worry that rings his green irises. And they’re so very green, so very lovely. And, so... 

He can’t take this all in. Harry wants him? Harry wants to  _be_  with him? With Louis? Properly?

“Okay, but, when you say that... Communication hasn’t exactly been our strong point so far,” Louis rasps, feeling his body immediately react, recognising Harry’s own orbiting his as he gets closer, closer, until they’re standing face to face, nose to nose, toe to toe. “Do you really want me? Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Harry answers, resolute.

“But what does that mean, exactly?”

“What does it mean?” 

Louis stares, heart pounding.

“It means I want to make sure you eat breakfast every day," Harry smiles, radiant and real. "It means I want to lie with you until we fall asleep. It means I want to hold your hand around all the cities we’re gonna visit together. It means I want us to laugh until our stomachs hurt because you’re insulting all the historical landmarks in front of the tour guides. It means I want to wear your hoodies so I can feel close to you when you’re not with me. It means I want to lie in your lap as you play with my hair as we watch crappy movies. It means I want to kiss you until I can’t breathe, and it means I want to take a million pictures of you, of us. Because I want us to be art”—Louis lets out an amused snort and Harry beams at him wetly—“I want us to hang in the fucking Louvre. We’re a living, breathing, pretentious poem, Lou,” he laughs, eyes shining, “and I want to be with you so much, that every second we’ve not been talking has been a constant physical ache in my chest. And it won’t go away, no matter how hard I try to make it. But, see, I don’t want it to go away. I want to keep this feeling. Always. And use it to paint you a thousand portraits even if you think they're a bit out there, and still tell me you like them to not hurt my feelings.” He smiles lovingly when Louis ducks his head at the truth of that sentence, and god, Louis is so overwhelmed with all these beautiful things Harry is saying to him.

“But most of all, I just want  _you_. You make me feel better about myself, make me feel like I can do anything. You encourage me and support me and make me laugh like no one else. You're so gentle, and kind, and selfless, and understanding. And I promise I will do exactly the same for you. I promise I'll be the same for you."

 _You already are_ , Louis thinks, his chest tight, shivers running down his body.

"And I know that I don’t need to hide who I am with you, or what I’m going through now. I know it’s okay. That I might have some of the worst days, or get lost inside my head to the point where I might try to push you out. But it’s okay. Because I know you will always be next to me, if only just to let me know you’re here and that you won’t ever leave.”

Louis listens to each word with careful attentiveness, each word a pinprick to his heart in the best way, and he can’t help the hot stream of tears that slip past the beds of his eyes and roll down his hot cheeks.

He stands completely still, feeling everything all at once. Overwhelmed.  

God, he is. He does. He's so in love with this boy. He can't believe how much.

“Lou, are you okay?” Harry almost shrieks, full out crying now himself, and it’s so ridiculous—the two of them standing here at an exhibition, sobbing in the middle of the art, like the most clichéd, pretentious scene in an indie rom-com. 

It’s so stupid and unbelievable, and Louis hides his face in his hands, muffling his crying. The gallery is empty now, only a few spotlights are left on, highlighting the hidden beauty of people’s minds etched onto the blank walls for the world to see.

“I can’t—I can’t not have you in my life, Louis, please,” Harry begs, voice catching at the end. “You're not gonna make me go, are you? I was just scared and confused. I didn't mean all that shit I said that night. Don’t let this be over, please."

“It’s not,” Louis whispers, his eyes meeting Harry’s, which are wide and fearful, yet bizarrely Louis feels like he’s about to burst into hysterics at any moment, a wild sense of excitement, elation and intoxicating joy bubbling around his insides, radiating from his pores. “I am not going anywhere, Harry," he promises, smiling broad and free. "I've been obsessed with you ever since you climbed into my bed while sleepwalking," he laughs. Harry bites his lips, suppressing another watery smile. "And I will always be here for whatever you need. Even if it gets really fucking hard at times, I am not going anywhere, okay? You can tell me anything and I will do my best to give you exactly what you need. Tell me when you're feeling horrible, when you're sad. When it's too much, and you feel overwhelmed. Cry your heart out, if you need to. Or not, if you're just exhausted and you want to be quiet. It doesn't matter. You don't ever have to pretend you're okay. Not with me. It's not weakness, Harry. I'll hold your hand and we'll just sleep. Okay? Just tell me. And we’ll deal with it all together."

A shuddery breath escapes Harry's bitten lips. "We will?"

“Of course we will. Come here,” Louis laughs, sniffing repeatedly and taking ragged breaths. “This is so dramatic. Oh, my god.”

Harry barrels forwards, face crumpling with relief as he buries his fists in Louis’ shirt, thick tears seeping through the thin material of his t-shirt. The other boy cries into Louis’ shoulder, a choked laugh escaping after every few sobs. Louis’ arms come up around him, squeezing him as close as humanly possible, trapping the warmth of their bodies between them, melting into the other boy until they're one entity. 

It feels like home.

The relief Louis feels right now is immense. 

“I’ve had a lot to drink, by the way,” Harry says into his shoulder, muffled and young. “A  _lot_ of red wine. It was free and it makes me extremely emotional. And brave.” He lifts his head from Louis’ neck to look at him, drained and hair askew.

“Well, that makes two of us.” He leans back, gazing into Harry’s eyes that are so focused on him. “I almost didn’t come. I thought—that you didn’t want me like this.”

“I  _do_. I don’t want anyone else but you,” Harry says resolutely, eyes red-rimmed, his deflated fringe falling limply into them. "Properly, this time. I want us to be together."

He looks so tired and overwhelmed and fucking beautiful, but all Louis can focus on is the words that have just left Harry’s lips, and all the words before, staring with his eyes wide open, not even daring to blink in case it's a fever dream.

"You're my _person_ ," Harry insists as fresh, salty tears trickle down his pink cheeks.

Louis might collapse with happiness. "You're mine, too."

But then Harry's face twists with remorse, unease. “But I’m probably gonna make you sad eventually, and I don’t want to make you sad when you’re with me.” His tone is achingly earnest and it’s piercing Louis’ heart like needles into a pin cushion.

“Harry,” Louis says, eyes stinging hotly. “I would rather be sad with you than be anywhere else that isn’t exactly where you are too. I’ll gladly take all the difficult times over not being with you at all. Every time. I’m not expecting everything to be sunshine and roses, of course not. That’s not realistic. But that doesn’t mean I’ll want you any less, okay? You could never do anything to make me go away. You deserve to be happy, Harry. So happy. And like you said, I’m always going to be here for you. You can’t get rid of me. Sorry, love,” he smiles. "It's a done deal now. No backing out."

Harry’s brows furrow as he draws nearer to his face, stopping just in front of Louis’ nose. He brings up his hand, pressing his fingertips lightly to Louis’ agape lips, his own chest rising and falling with rapid, adrenaline-fuelled breaths. “You wouldn’t leave?” he frowns. “Even if I get really bad again?”

“I would never.” Louis’ hands find Harry’s waist and he pulls him to his chest, nosing at the side of Harry’s temple, grazing his wet cheek. “And mustn't feel guilty either, alright? Never. You’re allowed to have bad days, Harry. As many as you have to. And I’ll still be here. Right next to you until you feel okay again.”

“I might only be fine for temporary intervals, though,” Harry replies uncertainly. "I can be hard to live with.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll just be quiet. Sleep. Take everything as it comes. One day at a time, yeah?”

Harry half-coughs, half-sobs. “Why are you so good?” He shudders out a breath, mouthing lightly at Louis’ stubbled jaw. "You're so  _good,_ Louis _._ "

Louis smirks softly. “Mystery, isn’t it? But I have a literal angel for a mother, so I reckon that’s why,” he whispers with a wink. 

Harry huffs out a laugh, his teeth catching on his skin between pressing wet kisses along his jawline, to his chin, to his cheeks, and then finally he finds his lips. His hands bunch in Louis’ hair as they linger, and it’s damp from Harry’s tears, the taste of his kisses salty and sharp. But the boy whose lips they belong to is nothing but soft and gentle and so, so wonderful. 

"I'm going to need a copy of this for my room, by the way," Louis mumbles between kisses, beaming.

Harry hums, nodding heartily, smacking his lips. "Done," he exhales, eyelids fluttering closed. "Gonna paint you all the portraits," he murmurs, kissing him like Louis is Harry’s sole oxygen supply, alternating between bruising pressure and sighing into his mouth, caressing Louis' cells until he's essentially mush.

"Hey," Louis breathes as he draws back, smiling when Harry grabs at his shoulders, tightening his grip and rubbing their noses together. He giggles when Harry plants a kiss between Louis' eyes. "Let's get out of here, shall we?"

"Where to?" Harry smiles dreamily, reverent fingertips grazing Louis' chin.

"We could get tea?" Louis grins. "There's a late night cafe still open around the corner?"

"Perfect," Harry chuckles happily, recapturing his lips, his magnificent portrait of Louis the most fitting backdrop, shining brightly behind them in the empty gallery, the shadows meeting the spotlights, like they’re the sun and the moon, one endlessly needing the other. To exist, to thrive, to shine in their own right. Wherever it might lead.

Infinitely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, god. It's done... *collapses* I shall now go and hide under my bed because I'm really scared to know what you thought of this one. And it turned out to be slightly more angsty than I intended... <3 But thank you so much for reading if you stayed 'til the end! :) Leave me your thoughts please?! Thank you!! Xx 
> 
> (I might write an epilogue but I'm not sure. We'll see ;))
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr post](http://curlsandlashes.tumblr.com/post/162398674731/my-lights-stay-up-but-your-city-sleeps-by)

**Author's Note:**

> So if this doesn't suck too much, any comments or kudos and whatnot would be amazing!! Every one means the world. Thank you for reading my silly stories about these lovely boys :) xx


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